Seduction and Blood
by rebeccamay97
Summary: Hooking up with a gorgeous, golden stripper in a nightclub seems like a good idea at the time, but when Clary Fray moves to the city, the last thing she needs is to get tangled up with a potentially dangerous boy and his ruthless best friend. Soon, she's thrown into a dark world of two boys who know no limits, a world of danger and sex and power. AU/OOC Rated M for sexual content.
1. Hired

**So this is my new fanfic. I've had this idea for a couple of months now.**

**It's M for explicit sex scenes, violence, bad language. Also, there are themes of incest, drugs and rape. It is dark, darker than any other work I've done. **

**It's AU/OOC. There will be things that may piss you off about the characters – they are seriously flawed – hence why I chose to write OOC. Also, they're all 18 or over. Don't moan or complain if you don't like it, just don't read it. Simple.**

**There's Clace, Sizzy and Malec. Lemony stuff.**

**If for some bizarre reason this is taken down, I'll post on my Twitter page when/where I'll repost. My Twitter UN is in my fanfiction profile. **

**Please read and review as I may not continue the idea if there isn't much interest/ I don't hear from people.**

**I'll update sometime in the next week. Peace :)**

* * *

Jace Herondale and Jonathan Morgenstern were not men you wanted to cross.

The two of them were known for their threatening behavior, for the power they wielded over the city, for the violence that always seemed to follow wherever they went. The locals were afraid of them and their group of unruly associates. Everywhere they went, danger and bloodshed followed. Somehow, though, they always managed to avoid punishment. None of them had criminal records, and they had never been cautioned or fined. The authorities knew who they were, of course, but there simply wasn't ever enough evidence to convict them of the vandalism, assault or antisocial behavior they committed. They always got away.

The gossip of the city suggested their parents bought them out of the trouble. They were all filthy rich, residing in the residential area of the city practically set aside for stuck up, posh kids. It was made up of several mansions, with pristine lawns cared for by maids and gardeners hired privately. There was even a helicopter pad on the Morgenstern mansion, meant for Valentine Morgenstern's business, though no one really knew what he did. Jonathan Morgenstern was the son of Valentine, though no one had knowledge of the identity of his mother– she wasn't around.

Jace Herondale...He was an enigma. No one really knew who he was or what he did. No one knew anything about him. He was secretive and powerful, silent and cocky. His golden looks gave off the impression that he was the angel, a person of good, though that couldn't be further from the truth.

Jace Herondale cast a smug, knowing smile at Jonathan Morgenstern, now, as they walked purposely up the stone drive of the Lightwood Manor. For stinking rich kids, they held scandalous jobs. Alec Lightwood, the older of the siblings, owned the city's nightclub. He employed his sister, Isabelle, who worked there as a stripper or a waitress, whenever it really suited Alec. The locals thought it bizarre that Alec happily had _his sister_ strip in his club, but Alec was no fool. He knew what brought in business, and Isabelle's figure was curvy and delicious. Just her body was enough to bring in the men, let alone the scanty underwear and that whip. Alec was smart enough to keep his eyes trained on his customers as opposed to his sister, and her naked body was as natural to him as his own. He didn't care, didn't think anything of it.

Jonathan and Jace found that hard to believe, of course. Isabelle was beautiful. She also knew it, and sold her body to customers she found fitting enough to buy it. She frowned upon the word _prostitute_, but really that was all she was.

Jonathan, the alpha male of the two men, stopped before the massive, looming dark door. His confidence was tangible as he lifted his chin and banged the brass knocker. Jace's eyes surveyed the house. Others would think he was admiring the manor, taking in the ten windows, balcony and polished silver frames. But he was not admiring. He was judging. Did the Lightwoods have a better mansion than the Herondales? He didn't think so.

Jace didn't find it surprising when a maid answered the door. He wondered what she saw in the both of them. Two tall men, one of snow white and one of angelic golden, sneering at her? Or two teenage boys, requesting an audience with Alec Lightwood and his beloved sister?

He didn't bother to spare a thought. Without permission, Jonathan and Jace slipped inside, slammed the door behind them and stalked up the large spiral staircase, taking the steps two at a time. Maryse and Robert Lightwood had just accepted that Jonathan and Jace went wherever they liked, whenever they wanted. They were a law unto themselves, untamed.

"Alec Lightwood!" Jonathan's call was not loud, but quiet and deadly. His tone hid the undercurrent of a threat. Alec, who was incredibly intelligent, arrived at the top of the stairs.

He was dressed in black, like them, and his blue eyes pierced the two of them as he looked them up and down. He was tall but not as tall as them, and his black t-shirt strained against his muscles. Jace thought he would be quite a good catch for the ladies if, of course, he wasn't gay. It was a shame, really. He could have played around, manipulated some of the more _fun_ women of the city.

"Morgenstern, Herondale," He nodded in greeting. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Your sister." Jace sneered, though he respected Alec. The three of them were friends even, and spent time together in college, avoiding the rest of the pathetic student body. "We spoke about requiring her services."

Jonathan stepped forward, his black eyes darkening further. "You are a man of your word, are you not?"

Alec frowned, and Jace thought he saw a shadow of annoyance cross his friend's face before his expression smoothed out and Jace was left to wonder if it was a trick of the light.

"This way." He muttered, leading Jace and Jonathan away from the spiral staircase. They followed him through the old-fashioned corridors, and Jace – who had never held the same self-restraint as Jonathan – couldn't help but glance around.

"Nice house, Alec." He allowed begrudgingly, ignoring Jonathan as he curled his lip in disgust. Alec only grunted at him. He had never been very talkative.

The dark-haired boy stopped before a large door – the library – and turned to the other two. "She's in here."

"Thank you." Jace nodded but Jonathan said nothing as he pushed forward and opened the door.

Isabelle Lightwood was striking. She lounged against an armchair, her legs draped over the arm, a book in her hands. Her long, silky dark hair trailed over her shoulder and her lashes fluttered as she read over the words. Her breasts – which were the first thing both the boys noticed – were practically bared to them, clad in a tight-fitting black top. She wore denim shorts; her long legs making Jace swallow and look away. She showed more skin than most girls dared in this city.

Isabelle looked up and her dark brown eyes took them both in, regarding them, judging them. Jace tried to stand slightly taller but to no avail. Isabelle still identified Jonathan as the leader of the two.

"I wasn't aware I owed anyone business today." She cooed as she set her book down, flicked her legs to the floor and stood. She was even more beautiful standing. She was tall – almost as tall as him – and held her weight with a deviance and confidence that Jace couldn't help but admire. There was a whip at her side, coiling down her wrist to meet her hand. She played with it subconsciously, though he didn't think she realized.

"We're here to offer you business." Jace said, cutting Jonathan to the chase. The other boy glared at him.

"Oh?" She purred, strutting over to him. She looked him over, splaying a hand over his chest. "What, a golden boy like yourself? You can't find any other girls? I'm afraid I don't buy that _pathetic_ story."

She was intelligent too, apparently. Jace couldn't deny he saw the spark of intellect in her brown eyes. She was, after all, a businesswoman. It was hard to think they were the same age. He felt slightly inadequate under her ever searching gaze.

"Not for myself, girl." Jace sneered, stepping away. "You're not my type, anyway. You're too tall and arrogant."

Isabelle cocked her head, apparently unhurt by the comment. "You like your girls humble and obedient, right?"

He gave a snort of disgust and didn't deign her words with a response.

Jonathan waved his hand, only slightly irritated. "Meaningless details. We don't require your services for ourselves – we probably have more traffic in that respect than even you. But our friend, Simon Lewis-"

"I've seen him." She snapped. "Around college. Brown, curly hair and dorky glasses? Kind of cute but super awkward at the same time? I don't know why you let him hang around with you."

Jonathan glared at her, not pleased to have his judgment challenged. "It matters not that he is with us. We'll pay you – a large sum – to...do _whatever_ it is you do with virgin men."

She smirked, her brown eyes lighting with interest. "A virgin?" She raised a perfect, black eyebrow. "I didn't think there were any of those left in your circle."

"Fortunately, he is the last one." Jace said but Jonathan interrupted, shooting another quelling look at his second-in-command.

"That is why we are employing you." Jonathan murmured and Isabelle brightened, striding over to him. He let her touch him, her hand playing at his shirt. She hooked her fingers in the loops of his black trousers and pulled him close to her, so close that Jace could see his hips touched hers.

"What's the payment, boy?"

Jonathan didn't like her tone but he indulged in her flirting. He liked the game women played around him, seducing and duping him into sleeping with them. He liked that the girls wanted him enough to try, liked that he wasn't as desperate as his other circle members – Jordan, for example. With his bizarre, ethereal looks and the large sum of money he always had in his pocket, he was a magnet for girls and they fawned over him, falling at his feet.

Jace had to admit the same for himself but at least he acted a little more dignified about it.

"Name a price." Jonathan growled and Jace swore his hand roamed around the stripper's upper thigh. Isabelle's lashes fluttered and she stepped back, a hand on her hip and the tell tale signs of attitude playing at her face.

"I have enough money." She said, her nose wrinkling.

"What's your point?"

"My _point_," She glared at Jace, who had spoken, apparently not liking him as much as before. "Is that you're both friends of Alec's. He trusts you. My price for sleeping with your friend – or whatever he wants: work at the club. Under Alec's management. With me. We need strippers, barmen, _anything_."

Jonathan scoffed but Jace lifted his chin. "How long?"

"Indefinitely." She said but both of the boys shook their heads. "Fine." She sighed. "Five months."

"Four." Jace said at the same time Jonathan growled, "Three."

The boys looked at each other, flashing irritated glances at the other before facing the girl once more. "Three." They said again in unison.

Isabelle narrowed her eyes, sizing them up. After a moment of tense silence she sighed. "Fine." She said. "Work with us for three months – paid – for four nights a week."

"Nope." Jonathan shook his head. "No deal. I say three nights."

Isabelle gaped. "But what's the point in having you then-"

"Three nights per week." Jonathan said, overriding her. "Take it or leave it."

Isabelle bit her lip, torn. "Fine." She snapped again. "Minimally paid work – three nights a week for three months. Does that suit you?"

Jonathan flashed a grin, holding out his hand for her to shake. "Perfectly."

Her lip curled and she shook his hand. "It really is a shame that you didn't want business." She smirked, her eyes devouring Jonathan's body. "You would have been so much fun." She trailed a finger down his chest. "You're so tightly controlled, so rigid in your ways. It would have been so good to see you unravel at my touch." Her finger reached his waistband and she tugged him towards her, their lips inches from each other.

Jace made a sound of annoyance and Jonathan stepped back, cool and unruffled. "I don't look for girls who try to 'unravel me'." He said coldly. "I look for girls who will give me a night's fun with no strings attached."

She shook her head, her lashes still fluttering seductively. "Pity." She said, her voice soft. Then, without another word, she strode out of the library.

Jonathan and Jace glanced at each other, perplexed. Neither of them really understood the female species. And neither of them understood Isabelle, who slept around for payments that didn't involve money and stripped for strangers for fun. Her parents, apparently, disapproved of her frivolous ways, then again, _all_ their parents disapproved of the circle of rebellious boys.

Without communicating, Jonathan and Jace trailed her, following her down the corridor to another room. Alec hid in the shadows of an alcove, watching them carefully. His sister called him in a musical tone and he followed her, wondering what she was up to.

"You would have made a good escort, Jonathan." Isabelle continued, as if their conversation hadn't been disrupted by her abrupt departure. "You look for girls who'll give you fun with no strings but isn't that really what I do?"

Jonathan sneered. "I wouldn't do it for money. I'm not that disreputable."

She huffed at his hidden insult. "I would be careful whom you call disreputable, when _you're_ the ones who came to me."

_Touché,_ Jace thought and he hid his smirk as Jonathan scowled in fury. Behind them, Alec hid his chuckle with a cough. Only his sister could insult Jonathan Morgenstern and get away with it unharmed. There was a certain charm about her, a power that even the son of Valentine Morgenstern couldn't touch.

She opened the door to another room and stepped inside. The door slammed in Jace's face and he grunted with a mix of surprise and irritation. When he stepped inside, he said, "Polite, aren't you?"

"I don't survive with manners, Jace Herondale." Isabelle said briskly, searching through one of her drawers. She looked up and pinned him with her stare. "The city is a dangerous place – and evil lurks in the shadows. You would do well to remember that pleases and thank-yous will not save you in the end."

Jace and Jonathan both blinked, not expecting the drama in her voice. She gave a tinkle of a laugh and in it Jace could hear the hidden strength, the concealed threat. He would _do well_ to remember that Isabelle Lightwood was a dangerous woman and that one slip of the tongue could land them both in trouble they didn't need.

Isabelle slapped some papers down and handed both the boys a pen. "Contract. Sign. I've already entered the conditions."

Jonathan and Jace looked at each other, eyebrows raised. Jace saw cool amusement in his partner's face and he wondered if it was mirrored in his own.

Nonetheless, both the boys sat and signed the papers and the only sound that could be heard in the room was the scratch of pen against papers, and Isabelle's tinkled laugh.

* * *

"This is the third death this month and police are suspecting drug involvement. If you have any information regarding the deaths of these three teenagers, please call the hotline anonymously at-"

Clary Fray turned the television off, disgusted. Why did her mother choose to move to this wretched city when they had both been perfectly happy in their hometown? The city reeked of violence, drugs and sex. What was here that could possibly interest her mother?

The art, of course. Jocelyn Fray was a well-known artist, but she had the potential to be something more if she boosted her reputation – and she wasn't achieving that sitting around in a small town. The city held the promise of something more, of more opportunities for her to sell her art.

Clary looked down at her own drawing in front of her. She had inherited her mother's talents, but something wasn't quite right about this drawing. She'd drawn a golden angel, and flames roared around him. Blinking, she realized she'd drawn his mouth open, a silent scream of pain and terror.

Swallowing, she pushed the drawing away. After seeing the time, she jumped up from the breakfast bar stool and ran to her bedroom to get changed. She couldn't go to the club in a lousy t-shirt splattered with paint. How could she get a job then?

When she bounded down the stairs twenty minutes later, slinging a leather bag over her shoulder, Jocelyn looked up from her chair beside the easel and scowled.

"Where are you going?" She asked, disdain written all over her as she scanned Clary's short, tight-fitting dress. "Dressed like that, you aren't going anywhere."

"You answered your own question again, Mom." Clary sighed but she stomped back up the stairs to get changed. Slinging the clothes she was wearing in her bag, she threw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. She leaned out her bedroom window, peering at the floor below. Bushes and overgrown weeds lay at the bottom beside the sidewalk and she sighed resignedly as she dropped her bag of clothes out of the window, watching morosely as it caught in the weeds.

She ran back down the stairs and her mother smiled, apparently appeased. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to the leisure center." Clary lied. "I want to see if I can get a job there."

More lies. She'd already tried to get a job there; she'd been looking for part-time work since they'd moved in last week. The attendant at the desk had shook his head and leaned in close to her.

"With a body like yours, you'd likely find a job in the Seduce, the nightclub. The Lightwoods own it and I hear they're understaffed."

She'd flushed and turned away, instantly dismissing the idea. But now, as she struggled more and more to find paid work, she found her thoughts flitting to the club, to the name – Seduce, owned by the Lightwoods. She was at her wit's end with everything else and she needed to find a source of income to pay for her art supplies for the damned college Jocelyn was sending her to.

So now, at eight o'clock in the evening, Clary left her house, picked up her bag from the weeds outside her window and strode down the street, following the memorized directions to Seduce Nightclub.

* * *

When the club was in sight, flashing with colored strobe lights, hidden in shadow, Clary ducked into a nearby diner, changed in the toilets, applied some make up and tried to tame her flame-red hair. It wasn't happening; the curls just wouldn't flatten.

Sighing, Clary entered the club.

The first thing she noticed was the noise. Deafening and thunderous, the music assaulted her and she stopped for a moment to get used to it. People swarmed around her, most of them her own age. The place smelled of sweat, perfume and something darker, something luxurious and seductive. Like blood.

She pushed her way past the swarm of teenagers, her eyes flitting for some idea of who was in charge, swallowing her nervousness. She stopped, gawking, as she spotted the stage.

Silver poles gleamed high to the dark ceiling. But that wasn't what caught her attention. It was the dangerous dance the couple in the center were engaged in. The girl was clad in a tiny, tight-fitted playsuit that showed more of her body than if she were actually naked. Her long, silky dark hair flowed down her back and she was beautiful in ways Clary would never be. Her skin was pale in the strobe light, porcelain, like a china doll.

Her boyfriend – Clary assumed – was locked in her perilous embrace. She coiled her long whip around his neck and he leaned in to her, drinking her in, watching her under hooded eyelids as he held her close to him, his eyes drawn to the dip of the girl's cleavage, his fingers roaming her bare skin. He had golden hair, the curls brushing the nape of his neck. His face was all sharp. Sharp cheekbones, jaw line, nose. But he was beautiful. Clary couldn't deny him that. He was shirtless too, clad in just dark shorts, and the light gleamed on his chest, making him look startlingly like the angel in her drawing. There was something otherworldly about him, something that drew Clary to the front of the club, her fingers splayed on the stage before her as she stood on her tiptoes to gain their attention.

"Excuse me!" She called and when they didn't hear, she yelled, "_Hey, listen!"_

Both of them turned and the spell shattered around them. "What?" The girl shouted. "Can't you see we're busy?"

Clary rolled her eyes and looked at the boy. Up close, she could see the slight chip in his tooth as he sneered at her. She wondered where he got that from. A fight? His golden eyes flashed as he took her in, judging her, mocking her.

"I'm looking for the manager." Clary tried to make herself appear taller but it was no use. They were four feet above her anyway. "Do you know where I can find him?"

"You're looking for Alec Lightwood?" The boy asked and he turned to look quizzically at the girl.

She stalked closer and squatted near Clary. She fought the urge to step back. The pole dancer was intimidating and the skin she showed made Clary want to flush and look away. But she didn't. She held eye contact until Isabelle jumped down from the stage beside her.

"What do you want?" She asked, a resigned look in her face.

"A job."

The stripper eyed her up and down, raising an eyebrow. "We don't have any here for you. I suggest you go find one in a restaurant or fast food joints."

"I've tried that." Clary told her, irritation starting to build within her.

"I've already told you." The girl snapped. "We don't have a job here for a _little kindergarten girl_ like you."

Anger snapped inside Clary. Just because she was beautiful and Clary was not. She was fed up of being underestimated, of being judged before she'd had a chance to prove her worth.

The boy jumped down beside his partner. "What does she want?" He didn't bother to spare Clary a glance.

"Look," Clary snarled. "If you don't tell me where this Alec Lightwood is, I'm just going to try and find him myself. I'm _not_ giving up until I hear from him. You can't scare me away, _bitch_." She said the last part to the girl and watched with a surprising shoot of glee as the girl blinked, apparently unhurt, but pleased.

The boy turned to Clary. "You want to be careful who you're speaking to, redhead. This is _Alec Lightwood's _sister, after all."

Clary paled. She'd heard the name. Isabelle Lightwood. Had she blown her chances at being hired already?

But rather than show anger, Isabelle only laughed. The sound made a shiver travel down Clary's spine. It was dangerous, dark. There was no trace of humor in the sound.

"Come on, little girl." Isabelle waved to her. "We'll go find my older brother so he can reprimand you for being so bold."

Clary ignored her condescending words and only said, "Thank you."

The golden boy tagged along, despite Clary feeling as though he wasn't needed. Sure enough, when Isabelle led her to a dark door to the left of the bar, she turned to the boy and said, "Serve up for a while."

The golden boy scowled but moved behind the bar, taking orders from the people who waited there and serving up drinks…_half naked._

Clary shook her head, astounded, and followed Isabelle through the door.

It led to a further corridor – plain but not drab, before Isabelle turned another corner. Clary scrambled to catch up with her.

"Alec?" Isabelle called, her tone brisk.

"In here, Iz." A man replied. Clary swallowed as Isabelle opened an office door and stepped inside.

"I have someone asking for you."

"Who?"

"I don't know. A red headed girl-" She popped her head out the door and eyed Clary. "What's your name again?"

"Clary Fray." She responded, trying to sound as strong as possible. The last thing she needed was to sound weak.

Isabelle repeated her name and Alec said, "I don't know a Clary. Let her in."

Clary walked in – without being told by Isabelle – and stood before a small desk. A dark haired boy – not much older than her – sat behind it, signing papers and scanning his computer.

"Sit." He said, not looking at her.

Clary sat.

"What do you want?"

"A job." Clary said, not for the first time this evening. "I'm desperate for some money-"

"I don't employ children looking to earn pocket money." Alec interrupted and he finally deigned to give her his full attention.

Clary rolled her eyes. These people were so rude! "I'm not a child and I'm not looking for _pocket money." _She snapped. "I'm looking for a source of income to fund my college education."

"And _I'm _looking for someone who wouldn't mind taking off all those clothes for random – often gruesome – strangers."

Clary swallowed, thinking of Isabelle and the golden-haired boy, entrapped in their own lustful dance. Could she do something like that?

Last week, she would have said no way. She couldn't do that. Not meek, shy, little Clary. But she wanted to be different. Moving to this city, starting again, it gave her a chance to be someone different. She could rebuild herself, live a different lifestyle. If she didn't like it, she could always quit, right?

She'd always been known for her rash decisions, for leaping headfirst into things she couldn't always see to the end. But now…she wanted to try. She wanted to be someone like Isabelle, who wielded power so tangible that people gave her second looks as she walked by. She wanted to be influential, for people to listen to her when she spoke, instead of having gazes slide right past her, as though she was a nobody.

"I could." Clary nodded, swallowing her own silent protests.

"I'll offer you two months probationary – paid – no contract." He said, leaning back, eyeing her carefully. "Consider it your training; you'll be instructed by my sister, who you've already met. If, perchance, you find you don't like what the job entails, you can leave by the end of the two months. If, by some miracle, you do," He shrugged. "You're on."

Clary smiled, though she couldn't ignore the butterflies in her stomach. "Alright." She said, nodding. "Thank you."

"I hope I don't regret this." Alec Lightwood pierced her with his gaze. "You start tomorrow."

Clary jumped from her seat, excited. "Great. I'll see you then, Mr. Li-"

"Alec." He said. "Call me Alec. We don't deal with formalities here, Clary. This line of work…it's much too personal for formalities. I will, after all, see almost _every inch_ of your little body, clothed and unclothed." He smirked when he saw how uncomfortable his words made her. He didn't think she'd last. He didn't think she'd make it. She wanted to prove him wrong.

* * *

Isabelle left her by the bar without a word to return to the stage alone, so Clary sat down. Two men worked behind it, both half-naked. There was something familiar about the white-haired guy. His eyes were dark and hungry and he stared at each girl with a predatory leer. Their boyfriends didn't even tell him to back off. There was something about him…strange and recognizable.

Isabelle's golden boy - the other man behind the bar - served her. "What can I get you?" He smirked, his eyes appraising her.

"Vodka and coke." She ordered. If she was going to be someone different, more brash, she may as well start playing the part.

"What did you do to make Isabelle let you stay?" He asked, picking up a glass and flipping it around his adept, scarred, long fingers. "I figured you'd be half a mile gone by now."

She didn't quite feel like telling him about her new job. Instead, she grinned and leaned forward. "I have my ways."

He did a double take, eyeing her up and down with renewed interest. "Do you now?" He turned to pour a shot of vodka into the glass before turning back to the soda disposal unit.

God, he was so attractive. Clary found her thoughts straying over to his fingers, his chest, his lips.

"What did Isabelle have to do to rope you in?" She found herself asking, as the boy slid her filled glass across the bar to her.

He only chuckled darkly. "We struck a bargain. It was consented."

Clary had no idea what he was talking about, but suddenly she had the feeling she didn't want to know. The boy's smile only widened.

"I know Alec's hiring you as a dancer, like Isabelle." He said after a while, his golden eyes burning with something Clary couldn't decipher. "You have any experience?"

Clary couldn't lie. He'd realize the truth when she finally got on that stage. "No."

A golden eyebrow lifted. She scowled. Why was it only attractive people could do that? "Daring of you to apply with no experience."

"'Daring' is my middle name." Clary lifted her glass of vodka and coke, toasted to him with a flirtatious smirk and necked it in one, wincing as the sharp tang of alcohol burned her throat.

He leaned forward again, so close that his nose touched hers. "How daring, I wonder?" He growled, his voice low and sultry. His eyes showed amusement; he'd seen the defiance in her eyes when she'd downed her drink. "I'd be willing to test that."

"Aren't you with Isabelle?"

He gave a snort and shook his head. "No. She's hot but arrogant. We _work together_, redhead. You better get used to having a man's hands on you very soon, if you want to work here."

Hearing the words on his lips sent a shiver down her spine. She could feel the excitement burning through her veins. There was something about this place, something about it that set her on fire.

"I can help you with that." He continued, flashing another grin.

Instead of declining, Clary thought about it. He was attractive. And she really did want to start again. She wanted to be rash and daring and sultry and bold. She wanted to do things her mother would ground her for. She wanted to be rebellious and dangerous. What better way than to have her way with this beautiful man before her?

"I'll hold you to that." She said as she took his hand and he led her into the bathroom, abandoning the bar to the other boy and locking the door behind them.

* * *

**Don't forget to review ;) **


	2. Frustrated

**Update! This is a little Lemony ;)**

**I haven't read City of Heavenly Fire yet – it's on my bookshelf, staring at me. Alas, I cannot until my exams are over, so I kindly request reviewers keep spoilers to themselves. You wouldn't want to spoil a fellow Shadowhunter, would you?**

**Anyway, I need to hear from you. I need your comments – they give me motivation. So just drop a review in the box down below – even if it's just two or three words. PLEASE, GIVE ME A SIGN.**

**Anyway, R&R, and enjoy! ;)**

* * *

He pushed Clary against the restroom door, his hands firm against her waist - and they were suddenly kissing. She'd never really kissed a guy like this before. There was this boy…before – Sebastian Verlac. He was sweet and kind and they dated for a while. He was only ever charming and his kisses had been soft and nice.

_This_. This wasn't soft or nice, this wasn't sweet and kind. This was _electric_. This was fire, igniting the blood in her veins, raising the goosebumps on her skin. This was passion incarnate and she wanted _more_.

His hand snaked up her spine, his fingers twisting in her fiery red locks, wrenching her head back. It was painful, Clary thought as sharp jabs pierced her scalp, but in a pleasurable sort of way. The movement brought them closer and his tongue breached her parted lips. She gasped and a growl emanated from his throat; desire had them both hooked. Her face flushed as his hands roamed down her body, curving over her breasts to her hips. She'd never been touched like this before. Her mind scrambled for something to do, searching for some instinctive hidden file inside her that told her how to do this without embarrassing herself.

He lifted her up onto the washbasin and she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, her body hyperaware of the friction between them. His body rubbed against the insides of her bared thighs as she clung to him, her nails digging into his sturdy shoulders. The chafing made her whimper with pleasure.

His lips attacked hers again as his crotch brushed against her skin. She sucked in a sharp breath. He _wanted_ her. The denim material of his jeans was taut, strained against his bulge. Clary had never engaged in this kind of activity before. She wasn't sure what to do or say. She didn't know what he expected from her but was clueless to how she could ask him without ruining the moment. Her mind raced but her body refused to stop engaging with the boy.

There's something mysteriously appealing about sex with a complete stranger. The old Clary would never have thought so, but now, a mantra ran through her mind on repeat, like a jammed CD. _I want to be different. I want to be different. I want to be different._

His hands ran up her thighs, sending shivers over her skin. She sucked on his lip, hoping, praying she had the same effect on him as he did on her. The material of her dress bunched up to her hips and the boy's hand slipped underneath, his fingers running over the hem of her panties. Tantalizing her. Teasing. It was torturous and alien, completely unfamiliar to her but not unwelcome. Dazed, Clary sucked in a breath, trying to calm her frenzied heart. He wouldn't let her recover. He kept playing, his fingers sliding over her panties, massaging. Everything about her pulsed, a feeling of dizziness washing over her.

She groaned, though the rational part of her told her to shut up, that the people outside would hear them. He gave a soft, hungry chuckle.

"What do you want, redhead?" He murmured against her mouth. His breath was hot against her lips, tasting like smoke and mints. "What do you want me to do to you?"

"Everything." She moaned, lost in a moment of overwhelming ecstasy. "Please, oh, God." His fingers moved in slow circles against Clary's inner thighs and she fought the urge to close her legs, pinning him between them. She tipped her head back, leaning against the mirror, feeling the cold of the glass seep into her skull. It was a welcome sensation; it fused with the heat that seared her skin, cooled the sweat that accumulated at the nape of her neck.

He gave another chuckle and dipped his head down to her face, his hand still knotted in her hair, pulling her head up to meet his lips. Her breathing quickened as his fingers moved away from her underwear to trail her inner thigh, moving back up, getting closer and closer to her heat. It was frustrating! His lips brushed over her throat, his teeth grazing. She gasped, the feel of his teeth against her neck and his hands against the insides of her thighs proving almost too much. She tried to pull him closer but couldn't think, couldn't see over the haze of pleasure as the golden-haired boy slipped his finger underneath her panties, pressing against her. Skin on skin.

She threw her head back to cry out loudly but he silenced her with a rough, hard kiss, his hand working hard against her, sending shoots of electric up her spine and causing dark flames to lick at her skin. His hand untangled from her hair to climb up her shirt, massaging and stroking with firm, warm fingers; she could feel the calluses scratching lightly against her stomach as he touched her, the raised bumps of scars. She could barely think through the elation and desire inside her. Her eyelids fluttered closed as she relished his touch, her heartbeat thundering against her chest.

He smirked at her reaction and he wrapped her hair around his fist even tighter as he yanked her up to kiss him. Clary gasped, pain shooting through her. For the first time, Clary felt proud of her hair. The fiery red curls had always been a nuisance but now they were an asset; he seemed to _love_ them. He seemed to enjoy knotting himself in her hair, forcing her head up so their lips could meet. There was something about him, something so dominating and commanding yet she felt like she possessed all the power. She was in charge. She loved how he made her feel, how beautiful and feminine she felt underneath his touch. A part of her mind screamed at her to stop, that this was wrong, but she quelled that part, burying it deep into the corners of her mind as she let her body's animalistic – and completely new – needs take over.

Their tongues swirled together in a feral dance as she ran her hands down his chest, stopping at his pelvis. He was topless – he hadn't put on a shirt behind the bar – and she took the opportunity to run her hands over his chest, marveling as her fingers bumped over his lightly muscled abs, hard and tense beneath her touch. There was a sheen of sweat coating him and his skin burned feverishly against her fingertips. He hissed as her fingers touched the soft, blonde down of his stomach, trailing further, leading to the bulge underneath his waistband. She didn't venture there – she wasn't sure how to. She swallowed, unable to tear her eyes from the beads of glistening sweat on his chest and for a moment, she forgot what he was doing to her as she pressed her lips to it. The boy growled and jerked his hand against her, apparently frustrated. She jolted with shock and cried out but he slid his hand over her lips, quieting her. They were in a public place and neither of them liked the idea of being caught.

"Oh, God." She whimpered as his finger slipped inside her. She'd never felt anything like it. She clenched her stomach, bubbles of sensation bursting in her blood. He pulled out and then entered again and she gasped as two fingers breach her core, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. He pushed deeply and quickly and Clary soon found herself panting as his hand pounded against her. She felt slick and damp and her face flamed with embarrassment, unsure if she was supposed to. Would he be disgusted by her?

Apparently not. He leaned into her, his nose buried in her red hair as he inhaled, his fingers moving inside her. "Mmm…" He gripped her closer, rocking his pelvis against her thighs, slamming his hand against her pelvic bone until Clary could do nothing but thrash, her head turning from side to side, her mouth open in a silent moan. "Does that feel good?"

"Yes!" She gasped, a feeling of frustration building inside her. She wanted to be closer, entwined. She wanted more from him, though she couldn't see how that was possible. He silenced her words as he kissed her, biting her lip slightly. His hips rolled against her legs and the friction caused him to tip his head back, a hiss escaping his lips. "Fuck." He moaned and Clary was momentarily fascinated by the shape of his mouth as he closed his eyes, sucking in a breath. His lips were slack and his tongue snaked out to lick his bottom one, his eyes – now open – so dark they appeared black.

"Come on, redhead." He muttered and she moaned in ecstasy against his mouth. He slowed his rhythm, his fingers barely thrusting into her now. Clary's wave of intense desire only heightened along with the frustration. He was purposely being slow…torturously slow. She could feel her body trembling as pleasure built inside her. She wanted release. She wanted to let it all go. She growled and lunged forward, capturing his lips in her own, speeding it all back up again. Invigorated, he pulled at her underwear and ripped them. She couldn't stop the giggle that escaped her lips. He smirked too and ripped them off completely, hiking up her dress further as he pulled her against him.

There was a crinkle as a foil packet emerged and she froze, panic overriding.

"Whoa." She breathed as she placed a palm against his chest. He raised a perfect, golden eyebrow. "What are you doing?"

His golden eyes flashed as he smirked and a part of her felt satisfaction at the sweat on his body, the quickening of his breaths, the darkening of his eyes. That part of her was quelled by the alarm and fear coursing through her blood.

This was completely new and foreign to Clary and whilst she _wanted_ to have some fun in a nightclub's restroom, she didn't want to lose her virginity to a stranger. It was cheap. There was being different, and then there was being a slut.

He hadn't noticed the turmoil within her and he simply said, "What does it look like?"

"I…" She bit her lip, suddenly ashamed and embarrassed. "I'm a virgin." She blurted and then she closed her eyes, not wanting to see the reaction on his face. Most eighteen year old girls had had a lot more fun in the bedroom department than she had and she was aware of how inept she was. Of the fact that she was an anomaly.

She'd closed her eyes, but not before she'd seen the look in his eyes. Closed, hostile, angry.

Before she could even react, he zipped up his pants and pocketed the condom – still unopened.

"What's wrong?" She asked quietly, slipping off the washbasin and pulling her dress down, shame creeping through her. She had known he wouldn't like her lack of experience, and she _wasn't_ going to have sex with him, but she still felt the sting of rejection anyway. She wanted to know what he was thinking. "Why did you…stop?"

"You're a virgin?" He scoffed and his eyes darkened with anger. "You should have said. You could have saved us a whole lot of _wasted_ time."

She flinched as though he had slapped her, her cheeks flushing further with mortification.

"I thought you knew-"

She didn't have time to finish her sentence. Before she could blink, he turned around, snarling disgustedly, and left the restroom, not looking back. She stood there, frozen, disbelieving, as the door slammed behind him.

She stayed there, shame and anger and guilt and disgust building like a wave of cold fire within her, fusing with her sexual frustration and unfinished desire as it crashed down upon her, leading her to sit against the washbasin, her knees drawn to her chin as wracking waves of emotion quaked through her body. She didn't cry; she was much too angry to cry, too embarrassed, and she bit her lip hard, trying to resist the urge to scream. She tasted blood, hot and metallic as it spilled in her mouth.

She wanted to be different. Something inside her wanted to be different to him, too. Not just another screw. But who was she kidding? She'd never been more like everyone else. She'd never been so ordinary. As she sat there, used and broken, anger fizzled. Anger at herself, at the golden boy who really could not be further from the angel he portrayed. Anger at the club and the city and her stupid mother for wanting to move here. Clary felt a burning anger against the world.

After a while, exhaustion caught up to her. Her body ached from the activity and from the intense emotions it had endured afterward. She curled up in the corner of the restroom, not caring how disgusting and cheap she looked, not caring that she was in a _public restroom_, and fell asleep.

* * *

Simon Lewis sat on his couch and flicked through his comic book, bored. His glasses slipped down his nose and he pushed them back with a cry of frustration. Couldn't they just stay where they were supposed to?

"What's up?" His roommate, Jordan Kyle, strode into the living room, a towel hanging dangerously low on his tanned hips as he dried his hair with another. Simon looked away, irritated.

"Can't you ever put some clothes on?" He asked, covering his eyes with his comic. "You seem to be forever naked."

"Aw, dude," Jordan grinned, flashing white teeth. Simon could still see him in the crack between the comic book and his face. "You love it really. You _pine_ for me and my glorious nakedness."

"I do not!" Simon flushed and was suddenly grateful that the comic book hid most of his face. "You have me confused with Alec. I'm not gay."

"I have yet to see you bring home a girl." Jordan shrugged, dislodging the towel slightly and he gripped at it instinctively, waggling his eyebrows. "Ah, it nearly slipped. Can't have that, can we, Lewis?"

"Screw yourself, Jordan."

"Why would I when I have you to do it for me?"

Simon sighed and ignored him.

"Seriously, dude." Jordan said, wandering over to the unit by the window. He stored multiple aftershaves and scents in the glass cabinet, alongside the CDs of self-recorded band music and millions of guitar picks. "Who's on the cards?"

"No one." Simon said and Jordan rolled his eyes.

"No surprise."

"Fuck off." Simon rarely swore – only ever when he was angry. His upbringing had been strict – nothing like his friends'. His mother would hit him round the head with a wooden spoon for his words. "Come on then, man-whore. Who's tonight's screw?"

Simon bit back a laugh as Jordan, affronted, gaped.

"You can't possible believe I haven't noticed you slip out – all dressed up – _every single night_ for the last three weeks." Simon said, closing his comic book. "So, cough up. Who is it? Or who are _they_, I should say."

Jordan flipped him off and Simon chuckled, the tables turned. "Come on, Kyle."

"I'm seeing a girl named Maia tonight." Jordan said eventually. "We're meeting at Taki's."

"Nice place." Simon mocked, laughing.

"She chose it." Jordan shot back and Simon gave a half-shrug. "I don't know, man. She's different."

He raised an eyebrow. He'd never heard his roommate speak about another girl like that before. "In what way?"

"She's…She's feisty and strong." Jordan's cheeks pinked and he half turned away. "It's stupid."

"Are you in love with her?"

Now it was Jordan's turn to laugh. "_In love_." He shook his head. "No. I'd have to be a madman to fall in love with anyone from this district of the city."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well," Jordan rolled his eyes as though it was obvious. "Jonathan and Jace have made their way through most of them, haven't they? I don't want second helpings. I want someone…someone untouched by them, untainted."

Simon snorted, reclining back against the couch. "Good luck with that. Jonathan makes it his priority to screw every walking organism."

"He hasn't touched Maia." Jordan said softly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Don't you think it's wrong though?" He said, "That Jonathan treats girls that way. That they both do. Jonathan and Jace."

Simon had never really thought about his friends' antics before. Never really judged. They were who they were and he was only grateful he could call himself their friends. He was only grateful that he could call this better than _before_. Before Rebecca, his sister, had demanded he transferred colleges. Before, when brutes of the college threw dictionaries and footballs and dishes of macaroni cheese at his head. Jonathan had taken him under his wing, promising Simon that he'd never have to deal with pricks like that again. Not while he stuck around with him. That soon, the tables would be turned and it would be _them_ that cowered before Simon and _not_ the other way around.

Simon looked forward to that day. Jonathan had taught him to.

"It's them, isn't it?" Simon shrugged now. "I don't really care what they do with their sex lives. It doesn't affect me, does it?"

"No." Jordan conceded. "But then you don't bother to look for girls. You don't need to strategically list which girls have slept with Jonathan and Jace, and which haven't. You, in fact, _aren't_ _really interested in females at all."_

Simon sighed. And they were back to the gay suggestions. "I'm not gay." Simon repeated, almost resignedly.

"Then why don't you care, Lewis? Why don't I see you sneaking out at night?" He hesitated, and Simon saw he bit his lip to stop a smirk twisting at his lips. "Do you have…hormone problems? Can't you get it up? Do you need…Viagra or something?"

"_No!"_ Simon flushed a deep, slow red. "No, no, it's not that." That, he knew. He had, after all, had his fair share of erections and often spent time in his room, alone, wanking himself off to cease the feeling of frustration within him. He _did_ think about sex, all the time. He just didn't believe in sleeping with randomers, with meaningless strangers. He wanted his first time to be with someone he cared about and…he'd never met that girl.

Thinking about it now caused a twinge in his abdomen and he drew his knees up to his chin to hide his growing bulge from Jordan. He wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole. "Kyle, I'm done with this conversation. Stop sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."

"Alright!" He lifted his hands in innocent surrender and the towel slipped lower again. Simon squeezed his eyes shut quickly, before he saw what was inevitably going to happen, and Jordan chuckled and left the room.

* * *

Alec Lightwood sat at his desk, scanning his business's stats. He sat back and sighed, resting his arms behind his head as he stared at the red arrow on the computer screen. It flashed at him, screaming _failure_. Failure. Business had gone _down_ the last two months and he didn't like it.

"What's wrong, Alexander?"

Alec looked up as Magnus Bane strode into his office, without knocking, his hands clasped together like a villain's in a movie. He closed the door serenely, dipping his head as the door clicked shut. Alec couldn't help the small smile that twitched at his lips.

"Really?" He said, waving a hand to his boyfriend's hair as he ignored his question. Purple glitter caked the ends of Magnus's black locks, making it look like he had just dipped his head in a glitter paste. He wore a black, tailored, designer's jacket and dark skinny jeans, ankle boots on his feet. With every movement, a fleck of glitter sparkled under the light somewhere on his body. This is why Alec never dealt with glitter. Apply it somewhere and it turns up six months later somewhere else.

Magnus perched on the edge of the desk, his golden eyes, flecked with green, blinking slowly. Magnus's eyes reminded Alec of a cat. Oval shaped and feline.

"Come here, please." Alec groaned, letting his frustration out in a moan. Magnus leaned forward and kissed him, a long, lingering kiss. Alec had missed him. He'd been on a business trip to Peru for the last two weeks and-

He should still be there. He wasn't due to return until tomorrow.

As if sensing his thoughts, Magnus chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Want to hear how I got banned from Peru?"

Alec groaned and put his head in his hands. "Magnus, you promised no more trouble!"

"Well," Magnus shrugged, his eyes lit with mirth. "Trouble finds me! It isn't my fault."

Alec sighed and smirked, a feeling of joy coursing through him. "I don't even care." Alec growled, hooking his fingers into his boyfriend's pant loops. Magnus made a sound of contentment as Alec kissed him and he gripped at his shirt, a pleased sound emanating from his throat. Magnus's hands touched at Alec's hips, untucking the dark shirt from his belt. Fingers grazed at the muscles of Alec's abdomen and he tensed, shivers of pleasure shooting across his skin. He had really missed Magnus. Missed his delightful kisses, missed his outrageous hair styles, missed his gold-green, feline gaze. But Alec missed his hands most of all. Skilled and adept, they traced the planes of his stomach before they dipped underneath Alec's waistband.

Alec groaned but pushed Magnus away lightly. "Not now." He said, though he hated the two words. "Not here."

Magnus's eyebrow rose, his eyes flashing with playful mischievousness. "Why not?"

"Because I employed someone not an hour ago and she's likely to come back at some point this evening to quit before she's already started." Alec said. "And the last thing I need is for her to stumble across us…" He waved his hands and then sagged. "Business is going down," was all he said, defeated.

"And now we get to the root of the problem." Magnus leaned back against Alec's desk, straightening his shirt. "Alexander, to hear your personal issues I have to either make out with you or fight with you. While I wish to do the former frequently, I'd rather do it with no hidden agenda."

Alec smiled. Magnus knew him so well. "I'm sorry I'm in a bad mood."

"We all have our days." Magnus waved his apology off. "You don't think this new girl will pull business back up?"

Alec hesitated. "I don't even know why I employed her, Magnus." He said softly. "I was under some magical illusion that she had come at the perfect moment and was going to solve everything. But she's just a redheaded girl. She's too small and frail, too shy to work here."

Magnus grinned. "That's great. Redheads are the best to have. They're fiery and have a quick temper." When Alec didn't respond, Magnus shrugged. "So fire her."

"Before she's even done anything wrong? Before she's even started?" Alec shook his head. "I can't do that."

Magnus rolled his eyes and sighed. "So suck it up. Just accept that your lapse of judgment has led to a possible mistake and that you're too kind and compassionate to take the easy solution so find a new one."

Alec gritted his teeth. "I'm being stupid."

"I'm not going to disagree."

Alec choked and shot a glare at Magnus, who only lifted his hands in a shrug. "Listen to yourself, Alexander, darling."

Alec tried to sulk but his eyes caught another fleck of purple glitter on Magnus's pants and the sight of it brought forth the love and affection and it spread through him, conquering his morose mood and his lips stretched into a smile.

"I hate you."

Magnus grinned, flashing white teeth. "Hatred is such a wonderful emotion. It brings out the worst in people. And Alexander, if this is you at your worst…" Magnus didn't finish the sentence as he leaned in and kissed Alec softly, a promise of what was to come. "Come over tonight."

Alec's heart flipped at the invitation. "If that's what you want."

"No," Magnus exhaled, exasperated. "Come over if _you_ want. I don't want to force you to do something or be someone you don't want to be."

"Magnus." Alec said, blinking at him. His blue eyes pierced the glitterlord, amusement shining. "Now look who's being stupid."

Magnus swatted him but moved away, after dropping a feathery light kiss in Alec's dark hair. "See you later." He winked, edging out of the door. He stopped to ask. "What time are you closing up?"

Alec checked the clock. "Probably one o'clock."

"Great." Magnus grinned and sashayed out of the door. If he could see himself…

Alec chuckled, returned to his computer, and shut the red arrowed window down. He didn't care about business anymore. Not tonight.

* * *

Isabelle Lightwood glanced at the clock. One. She sighed, a weight lifting from her shoulders as she jumped down from the stage, her shift over. Some forty-year-old man at the side of the stage had spent the last forty-five minutes staring at her so intensely that she was starting to get the creeps.

Not that she wasn't used to the male attention, of course. She dabbled in men's emotions, letting herself bury deep in their minds, watching as she got underneath their skins. It was entertaining for her, the rush that came with a man touching you, or staring at you – regardless of the age – in a way that felt like she was the only attractive person in the goddamn place. Perhaps she was.

Isabelle spotted her colleague, strutting towards her. In heels and a deliciously short dress, Aline Penhallow approached her. Isabelle smiled, held out her hand and waited. Aline slapped it as she walked by and Isabelle felt a sense of friendship as she watched her friend climb the steps to the stage to clean the poles. Aline'd had her shift before Isabelle's and the escort was viciously pleased that Aline hadn't made as much money as _she_ did, despite her high opinions of the other girl. The lights had already dimmed on the stage and the crowd groaned, realizing the club was closing.

When Aline Penhallow was hired, Isabelle hadn't really liked her. She'd felt the other girl was stealing her limelight, trying to take her reputation away from her. But this – pole dancing – was Aline's only job. She wasn't a stripper or an escort, like her. Isabelle's reputation for her other careers were what held her on the top podium in this place. That and her exquisite beauty. Besides, Isabelle had come to love her breaks, the feeling of freedom that came from stepping down from the stage after a good night. The men still watched her, of course, but she could drink and dance with whom she wanted.

But now, she was straight on waitress duty. So she picked up empty glasses and tumblers from tables as she headed to the bar. Jonathan was on duty, flirting with a meaningless girl, but Jace was nowhere to be seen.

"Where's Herondale?" Isabelle asked.

"He had his way with some redhead chick and then took off." Jonathan scowled at her, clearly not pleased to be spoken to in the way Isabelle did. The girl didn't care. She sighed, dumped the glasses on the bar and went back out to look for more.

"That boy is the most _unreliable_, _dishonest, shittiest_ son of a bitch." She cursed as she swayed between the tables, picking up glasses and straws from the tables.

"I agree." Someone said. "Someone should really tell him. Jonathan. He should know he can't get away with that kind of behavior."

"Jace!" She growled as she slapped him on the chest. "You can't just abandon the bar to fuck some chick!"

"I didn't." He said simply. "Fuck anyone, I mean."

"Jonathan said-"

"Jonathan said I went into the bathroom after that redheaded chick from earlier and said I fucked her and moved on, didn't he?" Jace shrugged. "I didn't. I just needed to use the restroom."

"You went into a _girl's_ restroom!"

"Do you have any proof?" Jace smirked, his golden eyes lighting with a challenge. "Aside from Jonathan's word, I mean. Even the great _Jonathan Morgenstern_ can be wrong, you know."

Isabelle spluttered, anger rising in her. At that moment, Alec flicked the lights on and the few remaining customers left, grumbling and swearing drunkenly.

Isabelle spotted Kaelie across the room, her green hair backcombed wildly. She'd dyed her hair again; that was the fourth time in as many weeks! She was a bartender, though she mostly stayed out front to clear glasses and mop up vomit or blood or other bodily fluids that came hand in hand with owning a nightclub. She waved to Isabelle and yelled, "Good show, Iz!"

Isabelle nodded curtly. Kaelie was odd and Isabelle had never really taken to her as such.

"Alright, guys." She said, raising her voice. "Shotgun toilet duty. I refuse to sweep and mop this shithole up."

Jonathan scoffed at her, his dark eyes flashing. "Rather that than mop up Jace's jizz."

Jace rolled his eyes, unabashed, picking up a crisp packet with disdain. "I did _not_ sleep with her!"

Isabelle curled her lip, disgusted. Neither of the boys were any help with cleaning the place up. The first night they'd worked here, earlier this week, they'd refused outright until Isabelle had threatened their deal _and_ violence. They thought they were above cleaning duty, above manual labor. Well, she showed them. Filthy, arrogant pricks.

Isabelle went to the cupboard underneath the bar and donned some latex gloves and the toilet apron – which contained the various keys, fragrances and sprays she needed to clean the toilets. When she stood, Jonathan leant against the bar, his eyebrow raised with amusement.

"Cute." He remarked, his eyes flitting over her apron and Isabelle pulled a face at him – and an obscene gesture – and stalked past him.

She pushed open the female restroom door and froze. She glanced over her shoulder, biting her lip, weighing her options, before she let it close, shutting her away from the rest of the group.

The redheaded girl – Clary Fray, Isabelle remembered – was curled in the corner of the room, apparently asleep.

"Clary?" She asked tentatively. The girl didn't stir. Something clicked into place. This was the redheaded girl Jace had been talking about. Only he would fuck their new employee. Something like disgust and horror writhed through her at the sight of the girl, so frail as she cowered in the restroom. If he had hurt her, she vowed to make him pay.

"Clary, are you asleep?" Isabelle asked, ducking down beside her. The girl stirred and lifted her green-eyed stare. Relief flushed through Isabelle. She wasn't physically hurt, at least.

"Isabelle Lightwood?" She asked, confused.

"The one and only." Isabelle said bitterly as she moved a lock of red hair from the girl's face. A sudden rush of affection for the girl washed through Isabelle and she felt fiercely protective, the way a mother feels of her cub.

"What are you doing here?"

"I work here." Isabelle said, smiling. "The club's closed, Clary. You should go home. Come back tomorrow…if you still want to."

Clary just sat there, wringing her hands. Isabelle hesitated. "Did he hurt you?"

"No." Clary shook her head. "Not in the way you're thinking. I'm fine. I'll just…I'll just go." She got up.

Clary moved to walk past Isabelle, but the other girl gripped her wrist. "Are you sure you're okay?" Isabelle murmured. "I'll kill him if he…abused you at all."

"He just…" Clary sighed. "Is he like that with everyone?"

"Like what?"

"Is he always so proud and conceited? Does he truly think he's so much better than everyone else?"

Isabelle bit her lip, wondering what to tell Clary. "He's a law unto himself, Clary. There's no one else quite like him, except, perhaps, Jonathan Morgenstern. He gets around and he breaks hearts. They both do."

Clary blinked, her green eyes bright. "Yeah, well, someone should do the same to him – see how he likes it."

Isabelle sighed. "It doesn't work like that, sweet." She touched the other girl's cheek, pity in her gaze. Clary didn't want her pity, but didn't step away from the affectionate gesture. This Isabelle Lightwood was different to the girl she met earlier, and she liked her. "He manipulates-"

"No, he doesn't." Clary shook her head, feeling bitter. "I knew what I was getting into. He makes sure his girls know what they're getting into. He didn't manipulate me, he _used_ me."

"Clary…"

The red haired girl shook her head and Isabelle saw a spark of anger ignite in the girl's green eyes.

"I'll see you tomorrow." Clary said, her voice steely – though the ice wasn't directed at her. She strode towards the door. "And Isabelle? Thanks. For everything really."

Isabelle Lightwood smiled, her cheeks warm. Clary didn't look at her like the other girls did – like she was more intimidating, a different species. Clary looked at her like she was an equal. Isabelle never thought she'd like the feeling, but she was pleasantly surprised.

"Clary." Isabelle said, walking over to the door. "He's out there."

Clary only shrugged, resolve strengthening her jaw. "I don't care."

They opened the restroom door and Isabelle scanned the club for Jace and Jonathan. They were nowhere to be seen. Based on Aline's colorful swearing, Isabelle knew they had fled.

She couldn't help it. She threw down her cleaning bucket and spat.

"Son of a _bitch_!"

* * *

The man waited underneath the bridge, shaded by the dark shadows of the night, the moonlight casting his face into darkness. He waited, his foot tapping impatiently, and he pulled his hood low over his face. No one noticed him. No one noticed anything out of the ordinary as they stumbled out of Seduce Nightclub, spilling onto the streets, drunk and raving. No one noticed the gleam of the blade tucked into the man's belt, or the dark aroma that lingered around him. They were all too locked in their little fantasies, unaware of the cruel, dangerous world around them.

The man growled irritably and pulled his coat up further, concealing his face.

Evidently, the man was not there by some coincidental means. He was not there to lurk in the shaded corners of the city and watch _petty_ children play silly games. He was there for a reason, of course. The man was waiting for someone.

And that someone was very late.

The man looked over his shoulder, checking the streets for unwanted bystanders. Apart from the teenagers at the other end of the street, paying him no attention – as he preferred – the road was empty.

"Oi!" Someone shouted, and the man's skin prickled with a sense of foreboding as he turned his head to discern the teenager stalking towards him. He watched, head cocked, as the teenager shouted again.

"We're gate-crashing Dustin's house party. There's alcohol and weed, mate. You in?"

The man frowned, disdain evident in his features. He needn't have worried – the boy was not talking to him; he was spared having to answer by another teenager. A girl. She walked under the bridge, meters from him, towards the boy. The man understood, narrowing his gaze. Neither adolescent had noticed him, concealed beneath the cloak of obscurity. The man smiled coldly and listened attentively.

"Hell yeah." She cooed and the boy stopped to wait for her on the other end of the bridge.

_It would be too easy. _The man thought, watching the girl pass close to him, unnoticed, bloodlust sizzling in his veins. He felt a terrible fury at the teens and their carefree perceptions. Didn't they understand? Life was cruel, and it dished out fates undeserved. He'd had the sharp taste of _that_, after all.

Despite the man's violent turn of thoughts, the girl met her friend unharmed and linked arms with him. The two of them staggered down the street, away from the man, their steps manipulated by the alcohol in their bloodstream.

The man exhaled, his hot breath swirling in the air before him. And he resumed the tapping of his foot. _Tap. Tap. Tap._

The street was almost empty by the time his companion appeared, materializing out of nowhere. He stalked towards the man under the bridge, his stride purposeful and confident. The figure stopped several feet from the man, as though he was wary of him. The hooded man spoke.

"You're late."

"Late, but I managed to do as you asked." The second man said, irritation plain in his voice. "You might be interested to hear what I have to say, regarding what has happened this week."

"Oh?"

"I managed to locate the girl." The boy said. "I suppose you could say that, in a way, _she_ came to me."

The man stopped tapping his foot, pleasantly surprised though doubt writhed in his stomach. "Watch her, boy."

The boy chuckled darkly. "I have paid her _plenty_ attention tonight, my dear friend." He said, "Though I fail to see what you find so disquieting about her. She is barely a woman, still a girl."

"I told you _not_ to underestimate her." The man growled. "If she's anything like her mother, she'll be a whirlwind of trouble you and I both do not need."

"We shall see." The boy said, his thoughts lingering on the girl in question. Perhaps he should spend more time with her, get under her skin, learn her secrets, and then figure out why she was apparently so dangerous. The challenge appealed to him and he licked his lips in anticipation.

The man said nothing in return and, concealed underneath a bridge, hidden in the alcove of which no one could see, the men exchanged their packages and the weight in the boy's pocket became slightly heavier. They left each other's company. Guilt and ignominy weighed on the boy's chest but the anger and bitterness he felt overrode it and he shook it off, walking into the night.

The boy was pretty enough…but a monster lurked beneath.

* * *

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	3. Temptress Training

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* * *

"You're late."

Clary winced. She was aching all over and her head was pounding; she looked very much like a zombie. She set her bag down on the floor and pulled the sticky, stray locks of red hair from her face. She'd almost sprinted to get to the club on time and now Isabelle was already calling her out on her tardiness.

The place was empty, the lights on, and Clary couldn't help but look around. It looked so different in the day time. There were no shadowy corners, no strobe lights. It looked like a council's hall more than a stripper's club. The stage was set in the center of the room and Clary saw there were two silver poles reaching up to the roof now. She was sure there had only been one last night.

"I know." Clary breathed, placing a hand against her chest. "Mom was in a filthy mood; she wouldn't let me leave." It was true. Jocelyn's temper had hit the roof by the time Clary stumbled home at midnight last night. Clary had explained that she had found a job, to which Jocelyn had been furious. Her mother didn't want her working in a bar. They were too dangerous, she said. Luckily, Clary had been able to persuade her mother that she was old enough to look after herself and her mother had resentfully conceded.

"I don't care." Isabelle sang, but Clary could see she was only mildly irritated. "I have no interest in your problems."

"Oh. Well, okay." Clary didn't really care for her mood swings. One moment she was friendly and the next, she wasn't.

She studied Isabelle. The other girl had her foot up on a chair, buckling up stilettos. Clary frowned. Why was she wearing those now? Her long, dark hair was braided down her back and stray wisps stuck to her face. Clary had the impression she'd been dancing all morning. She wore yoga pants and a dark t-shirt that clung to her curves. Clary scowled. She still looked flawless in _workout clothes._ How unfair was that?

Isabelle threw something at her. With something like growing horror, Clary realized they were stilettos.

"Put them on."

"Why?" She eyed the shoes with the same level of disgust as she would if Isabelle had just vomited all over her. She entertained the thought for a moment before shaking it off, repulsed.

Isabelle stopped and looked at her, something like mournful sympathy in her eyes. "You didn't really think you could learn to dance in those, did you?" She eyed Clary's tatty converses with something like disdain. "You need to practice in the shoes you'll be wearing and you are _not_ wearing those."

Clary sighed. She hated stilettos. They made her feet hurt. For the sake of a few inches of height on her short form, the pain wasn't worth it.

Nonetheless, she sat on the nearest chair and started the tedious chore of buckling the stilettos up.

After a short while, Alec Lightwood strode in. Clary gaped at him. In the morning sun, Alec Lightwood's features were sharpened, more emphasized. Clary realized just how attractive he was. His raven hair spilled over his piercing, azure eyes. He wore black and his sweater clung to the muscles of his arms. He was tall and lean and somewhat intimidating. Clary looked away, paying almost too much attention to her shoes.

"Jace and Jonathan will be here this afternoon." He said to Isabelle, without so much as a greeting to Clary. "To help her with her partner dances."

Isabelle nodded, her expression stern. "Good." She glanced at Clary and rolled her eyes. "Clary, how long does it take to buckle up stilettos, for Christ's sake?"

"We're not all as adept in the ways of being a woman as you, Isabelle." Clary shot back, though she regretted the words instantly. Was she looking to get fired on her first day?

Isabelle, however, appeared unhurt. In fact, she made a sound of something like approval. Clary frowned, confused.

"At least you have some form of a backbone." Isabelle said, kneeling before Clary to tighten the already taut buckle straps. "Besides, you're going to have to learn to master your feminine charms, sweetheart. The boys won't wank over a rock."

Clary blinked but recovered immediately. "You can't be serious. You see that here?"

"We see all sorts." Alec interrupted, leaning against the bar to survey the two of them. "But if it keeps them coming back, it brings in money. Without money-"

"We're screwed." Isabelle finished. "Our parents don't give us an allowance, redhead. We're expected to behave like adults and make our own way in the world. If our business crashes, so do we."

"You're here to bring the business back up." Alec said, striding over to her. His hand reached around her head to the band that held her hair up. With a semi-painful tug, he let her fiery hair run free. "So start to show a little enthusiasm for your work. You _applied_ here, remember?"

Clary snapped, bored of the lecture. "Cut it out. I need this job. So can't you just train me, already?"

They led her to the stage and Isabelle jumped on with an unsurprising grace. Clary tried to imitate, but she ended up clutching at the stage with her fingernails, her knuckles white with tension, her knees up by her ears as she launched herself up.

When she finally clawed her way onto the stage, Isabelle tutted. "We'll work on that." She said, striding to a pole. "If you were in a dancer's uniform, you would have just publicized every crevasse of your little pussy."

Clary flushed deeply. Behind her, she heard the baritone resonance of Alec's laugh.

"First lesson, redhead. Sometimes, it's not about what you _show_, it's about what you don't." Isabelle said, her hands clutching at the metal bar. Then, with an agility and polish Clary couldn't help but gawk at, Isabelle lifted herself off the floor.

It was like she was flying, like gravity didn't apply to her anymore. Her legs straddled the pole, at perfect right angles to her body, her hands gripping it seemingly lightly. The lean muscles in her arm grew taut and her stomach tightened.

"Playing coy," She said, changing her position on the pole. "Is sometimes much more seductive. And that's all this is. You could be the best dancer in the world but the only thing the boys will care about is the art of seduction and how you wield it." Her legs encircled the shaft and she leant back, her back flexing as she came down to meet Clary's eyes. The other girl could barely concentrate on Isabelle's words; she was too busy admiring the way her body flexed, the way she seemed to hold herself so steadily, without any fear of falling.

"How strong are you, little redhead?"

Clary swallowed. "Not that strong?" She said, but it came out like a question.

Isabelle chuckled and her legs unfolded. Clary let out a small yelp of surprise as Isabelle slipped from the pole, but the dancer seamlessly cartwheeled, righting herself. Clary's blood hummed in her veins. Would she ever be able to do that?

As if reading her mind, Isabelle said, "I could teach you to do that and more." She said. "But it's not just an activity or a hobby. Dancing…it's a lifestyle. If you train here, you have to train at home as well. All the time. It's not just the movements, the steps. It's the foundations of the talent. You need to sleep for at least nine hours per night, drink eight glass of water a day, eat healthily – that _includes_ carbs, proteins, fibres, sugars and your fruit and veg. Try to avoid processed foods and fast food joints. You need to start taking vitamins and minerals as supplements to your three healthily-portioned meals and _you_ _must_ _exercise_."

Clary groaned and Alec sniggered.

Isabelle pursed her lips. "I'll pick you up at seven in the morning."

"Why?"

"A morning run. Every other day for three miles."

Clary relaxed. That didn't sound so bad, even if it was at the crack of dawn.

"In the days that we don't run, we'll go to the gym for an hour-long intense class in muscle conditioning."

"Are you serious?" Clary asked, outraged.

Isabelle only looked at her. "How do you expect that puny body of yours to support you on that pole?" She pointed to the silver shaft. "The higher you are, the heavier you feel. You fall from there and you _will_ break a bone – you'll be lucky if you don't break your neck."

Clary swallowed, her eyes fixed to the silver gleam of the giant rod. Suddenly, it didn't seem so appealing. Not when it could lead to her falling to her death.

Isabelle gripped the pole and lifted her body to circle it, her body swirling around like a tornado, her toes pointed with elegance. Clary could see the enjoyment in her face, the pure bliss as she danced, her body curving and twisting around the shaft.

After a few moments, Isabelle sighed and settled down on the ground. "But first: dancing."

The horror Clary felt for the stilettos was nothing compared to the horror she felt now.

* * *

Two hours later, Isabelle's hands reached out to right Clary's posture for what seemed like the millionth time. Clary had ditched her sweater and now wore a crop top and yoga pants she'd borrowed from Isabelle. The escort was much taller than Clary, so she'd had to roll them up to keep from tripping. Unfortunately, the damned stilettos were still on her feet and Clary would be lying through gritted teeth if she said they didn't hurt.

Alec was sprawled out on the stage floor, watching the two of them. He was monitoring Clary's progress – and potential. He smirked when Isabelle corrected Clary's form.

"She's probably a little disturbed by how much you've had your hands on her, Iz." Alec said, his eyes bright with amusement. "She may think you're playing for the same team. Like me. Am I right, Clary?"

Isabelle shrugged. "I think the whole city knows I'm not a lesbian, brother, though I have experimented with certain clients, of course." Isabelle said, and there was an undercurrent of something else in her voice, something that Clary couldn't decipher. She frowned at the word 'clients', confused, and Alec understood the question on her face.

"My dear sister is a prostitute." Alec said for clarification, as though he were discussing the weather. "She sells her body to meaningless, sickening men for payments."

Clary, shocked, stepped away from Isabelle's grip. The escort scowled with anger more than hurt and folded her arms across her voluptuous chest.

"Alec, for fuck's sake." Isabelle snapped. "You couldn't keep your trap closed for five seconds, could you?"

"Well, she has a right to know."

"Really? Now she won't let me touch her at all!" Isabelle hissed, _"How do you expect me to teach her dance if I can't correct her form?"_

Clary stepped in. "I don't care."

They both ignored her. Alec shrugged. "She was bound to find out eventually, Iz. She works here now. Besides, there's hardly an adult in this city that doesn't know your name. Or maybe they've forgotten your name and just remember your breasts."

Isabelle's brown eyes flashed with vehemence.

Before she could argue, Clary raised her voice. "Isabelle, Alec! I don't _freaking_ care." She shouted. "I couldn't care if Isabelle was a prostitute or not. Why should it bother me? I'm not about to hire her."

"Good. Because I'm already contracted with _somebody else_." Isabelle hissed and her brother laughed, a genuine, rich sound. "And I've told you a hundred times, Alec, that I am _not_ a 'prostitute.' Prostitution is illegal. I'm an escort."

"Like there's much distinction." Alec shot and Isabelle flashed a defiant grin.

"Now, if you don't mind…" Isabelle continued. "If we're done with the career history-"

"That was not a history." Alec interjected. "A history would require all the men you've been with. Didn't you sleep with Jeremy Pontmercy? Or Emil Pangborn? They're like twice your age!"

Isabelle didn't even blush. She ticked her fingers. "One: I don't 'sleep' with anyone. I screw them for their time and money, and leave. The former term requires I actually have an emotional bond with the male in question and I _never_ let that happen. Ever. Two: I didn't even sign a contract with Pangborn; He wanted to do things that are quite frankly _bizarre_. Three: Pontmercy just wanted a quick blow job in between his work shifts. That's a casual contract – they just have to sign a quick disclaimer."

"Saying what? 'I will not take responsibility for laughing at your tiny cock.'" Alec quirked a dark eyebrow. "'I have no control over whether I spit or swallow.'"

"You want to talk about sex lives?" Isabelle countered. "How about we talk about that time I caught you and Magnus-"

Alec flushed and Clary held her hands up, not wanting to hear anymore. "Enough! Stop bickering, already."

Isabelle smirked at Alec's obvious discomfort but thankfully, neither of them said anymore.

Changing the subject, Clary turned to Isabelle, "Can you _please_ teach me how to correct my form?"

Isabelle – thankful for the topic switch – instantly lunged for her, using a hand to straighten her spine and another to pull her shoulders back.

"It's all about your center of gravity. You can't look sexy if your spine is bent like the Hunchback of Notre Dame…"

* * *

Simon was used to the looks he received when he walked the streets of the city. The locals knew who he was, knew he was one of _them_. The rowdy delinquents who caused nothing but trouble. His smile was small as he entertained an image of all the businesses shutting up as he walked by, throwing rotten food at him through the windows, booing loudly as he strolled harmlessly past them.

If the citizens of the city could get away with doing that to the group of boys, they would. Simon had no doubt about it. Simon, Jordan and Alec hardly caused any trouble; in fact, they were the least infamous of the group. It was Jonathan and Jace that upheld their gruesome reputation. Simon didn't like it – he couldn't even enter Starbucks for a shot of expresso – as he was banned from most public places for no apparent reason. He had never even been inside some of them.

He heard the whispers behind his back as clear as he would if they had shouted. People hated him. It was all in their eyes, by the way they kept their children close and the way they crossed the road when they saw him coming. Simon was almost used to it now. Almost. He still couldn't help but feel a pang of loneliness, of isolation, when he walked through the place he called home. Was it home if you felt you truly didn't belong there? Simon wasn't sure.

They knew where he was going, anyhow. They all muttered the words among themselves as he slinked by, trying to draw as little attention as possible.

_Raziel's Court._

They knew he was going to the division of the city set aside for the wealthier families. They knew he was going to lounge in manors so grand and luxurious that they practically screamed 'posh snob.' That's where the Lightwoods lived. And the Herondales and Morgensterns.

For a boy just trying to visit his friends, Simon received a lot of negative attention for it. He wished he bought Jordan along with him, but his roommate was out for the day with Maia. Simon was surprised. Jordan didn't usually last more than one date with any one girl. He liked to flit – 'to taste the variety', as he told Simon often.

It took him a further ten minutes to walk to Raziel's Court. The stones of the Morgenstern driveway crunched beneath his feet. Simon walked on autopilot. He was bored; he wanted to see his friend. To see the one person who's always been there unfailingly. To see the one person who saved him from the sad life he lived before.

Each member of their group owed Jonathan Morgenstern something. Simon owed him loyalty. Jordan owed him acceptance. Alec owed him friendship.

Simon thought about Jace's relationship with Jonathan. They'd been partners in crime for the last five years. But something sparked their friendship. Jonathan would never accept a stranger into their tight-knit group.

But what did _Jace_ owe Jonathan? Loyalty, like Simon? Or money? Jonathan would definitely require something from him. There's no way he'd be so absorbed by Jace if he didn't.

Simon dismissed the thought. Jonathan Morgenstern had his faults, Simon knew, but he wasn't as bad as people made out. Was he?

Or perhaps Simon was too blind to see the truth.

He let himself in. Jonathan had given him a key when they first became friends. _"You come on over when you're down. I'll be here if you need to talk."_

Simon couldn't understand how anyone could possibly hate Jonathan. Sure, he made mistakes, but he would never hurt anyone.

Simon made his way into the lobby – which was the size of his whole apartment – and turned left to move up the grand staircase. Being in Jonathan's home was like being in his own. He knew it like the back of his hand. Every room, cupboard, crevasse.

The manor was eerily quiet. Too quiet. But then Simon had always felt that way whenever he'd come round. You could never hear the people on the floors above or below you. Somebody could scream in this place and the other inhabitants would never hear them. The thought sent a shiver down his spine.

He thought Jonathan would be in. He knew the family weren't out; Valentine Morgenstern's sleek SUV was still parked in the driveway along with the motorbike and Ferrari. But then again, when did Jonathan and Valentine ever do anything with each other? The most Valentine did was engage his son in a short, clipped conversation about where he was headed for his next business meeting, and then ignore him for three or four weeks whilst on said business meeting.

That was it, Simon realized. Jonathan was just terribly misunderstood. He'd lived a lonely childhood, with no mother and an almost non-existent father. That was why he was sometimes so… malign. It was the backlash of his lonely childhood on his own personality.

A stair creaked under his foot and he winced. A moment later he berated himself for doing so. He wasn't sneaking around. Jonathan had given him permission to be here.

He made his way up a few more stairs before a tiny crack resounded underneath his foot. He lifted his shoe and stared.

Shards of glass dotted the three steps before him. He frowned. That was odd. He looked for the source, wondering how the smashed glass had gotten there. Didn't the Morgensterns have a maid to clear this up? Where had it come from anyway?

There. A picture frame four steps up. It was placed a little haphazardly on the wall, as though it had been removed and then put back at a moment's notice.

Simon stared at the picture. He knew what it was. It was Valentine's business' contract, framed and put on the wall as proof of his successes. The glass cover had been smashed completely, shards of glass still sticking out of the mahogany frame. It looked as though the frame had fallen off the wall.

But that could never have happened. Simon had been friends with Jonathan long enough to see these frames never left the wall. The frame had been there a long time and never before had it fallen off. Someone must have taken it off.

Simon looked down at the stairs covered in glass. _And thrown it, _he thought. Someone must have taken the frame off the wall and thrown it down the stairs. But why?

Simon scanned the contract.

It was very legal looking, with declarations of ownership and rights. But that wasn't what intrigued Simon. It was the signature at the bottom of the page. There was something about it…

It wasn't Valentine's.

He knew that because he'd seen Jonathan forge Valentine's signature many times before. Simon knew Valentine's scrawl was smaller and tighter. It wasn't this loopy, flourished handwriting.

S.H.

The initials of the signature were clear, but he couldn't make out the rest of the letters. Simon was certain the signature didn't belong to Valentine Morgenstern.

_A witness,_ he thought. This_ S.H._ was a witness to Valentine's business ownership…or something. What did Simon know about legal formalities? Absolutely nothing.

But that didn't change the feeling within him that something wasn't quite right about that frame.

Shrugging, he moved on.

At the top of the stairs, he heard voices. Quiet but strained.

"_I told you I never wanted to see you again!"_ Someone hissed, and the voice was undeniably female.

"Then why did you come back_?"_ The man's voice was cold and hard, completely unforgiving. Dangerous. Valentine Morgenstern.

Simon knew he shouldn't listen in, that it was unwise. He knew Valentine's temper was wild and unpredictable. He shouldn't be here, listening to the conversation in the room across the hall, through the ajar doorway, from the top of the grand staircase.

But he couldn't get his feet to move.

"The last time I saw you, you were in Paris!" The woman said. "I never expected to hear your name in this city. Ever. And the things people say! You hold the city in a perpetual state of fear, Valentine! _What are you doing?"_

"I'm running my business, Jocelyn." Valentine murmured, and a shiver ran up Simon's spine at the softness of the tone. It was too soft. Valentine wasn't being kind. He was warning her. "Much like yourself."

Jocelyn – the woman – was silent for a moment. "How…how…" She seemed to choke on her words. "Jonathan…how…"

_Valentine,_ Simon thought, _has always been too perceptive for his own good. _

"You want to know how Jonathan is." The man didn't phrase it as a question. "He is doing quite well. The locals, you'll be pleased to know, live in fear of him as well. He's tearing up the walls, quite a bit. Of course, I'd say I was proud if it wasn't for the constant payouts I had to make on his behalf to keep the authorities' mouths shut."

"I'm surprised you even know anything about your son's lifestyle, despite living with him. You don't care about your _daughter_." Jocelyn snapped, her anger renewed. "You haven't seen her since she was an infant."

Simon sucked in a breath. Jonathan had a sister? Did he know? Why didn't she live with him? Why hadn't Valentine ever spoke of her?

"I know she's here in the city. With you." Valentine sneered. "And I've heard that she possesses your spirit. She's reckless and bold, apparently, and too stubborn for her own good."

Simon edged a little closer, peering through the crack in the door. Valentine and Jocelyn glared at each other. At that precise moment, Valentine traced a hand down the woman's cheek, his black eyes so cold they appeared inhuman. Jocelyn was pretty, for an older woman. She had long auburn hair piled on top of her head and her lips were turned down in a stern grimace. Her green eyes flashed with fury.

"You've always been too stubborn, Jocelyn." He murmured and Simon saw the fear in the woman's eyes at his touch. "We could have stayed together if you learned to keep your mouth shut."

"Oppression is never the solution, Valentine." Jocelyn said, and her voice sounded much braver than she looked. She stepped away from him, something like mocking pride in her eyes. "Didn't I teach you that?"

With a resounding crack, Valentine's hand snaked across the woman's face. She turned her head to the side, accepting the blow, though her eyes seared with hatred. An angry red mark seethed on her porcelain skin.

Jocelyn didn't flinch when Valentine stepped close.

"I suggest you leave my house and my city. You cannot taint that which is mine with your filthy words." Valentine hissed. "Get out."

Jocelyn lifted her chin and moved close to him. Simon saw how her lips brushed Valentine's cheek, and how the man's hands clenched in fists at his side. Who was this woman? Why did she possess such power over a man Simon had always believed invincible?

"I'll make you pay for that." She murmured, her voice so low that Simon almost didn't catch her words. "You lay _one finger_ on my daughter – or let your criminal of a son _near_ her – I will break you. I will crush you and everything you own. Mark my words, Valentine. What was once mine was yours. _But not anymore._ You've been warned."

Without warning, she stalked away and headed for the door. Simon barely had time to hide in a nearby cleaning cupboard before the older woman stalked past him, her dark scarf billowing behind her. Simon hid unnoticed in the Morgenstern Manor, pondering over what he had just heard.

* * *

Sometime during the fifth hour of training, Clary and Isabelle were interrupted by the sounds of loud hooting, insufferable cat calls and inappropriate comments. Clary looked up. Two boys bounded in between the chairs and tables, running down to the stage. The first was the boy behind the bar last night. He had white blonde hair and eyes of soulless black. She swallowed, feeling that rise of recognition within her again. Where did she know him from?

The other boy was _him_.

Face heating rapidly, Clary looked down at her stilettos, feeling stupid and worthless. She felt embarrassed at the whole attempt of learning this. What was the point in all of it anyway? She was playing dress up at something she didn't understand. She wasn't Isabelle. She'd never hold her beauty or feminine power. Perhaps she should just quit.

_No. _She would not let the beautiful golden boy scare her away.

Clary knew they were Jonathan and Jace, the two rookies Alec had mentioned earlier that day. But which was which? The desire to know his name burned within her, almost eradicating the embarrassment she felt earlier. She stared at him, replaying her memory of last night's events over and over again. Instead of mortification, she just felt a strange detachment. Like she was remembering someone else's experience as opposed to her own. Like she was watching a movie. She didn't mind; anything was better than the previous humiliation.

The boy looked up, his golden eyes meeting hers. He smirked, a slow, deliberate, cocky smirk. Clary met his eyes and didn't look away. _I will not be weak. I will not be_ _weak._

After a while, the boy's gaze shifted. When his eyes flickered back to hers briefly, she smiled a sickly smile. _I win._

He simply raised an eyebrow.

Isabelle was apparently irritated with the both of them and she spent twenty minutes ranting at them over missed cleaning duty. Clary remembered Isabelle's wrath last night after she realized the two of them had fled. Clary did not want to be on the receiving end of Isabelle's temper. Ever.

Clary finally picked up on the two names. The boy with the white hair was Jonathan and her golden boy was Jace. Putting names to faces made things much easier for Clary, yet her thoughts were strayed to dirty scenes in which she rocked against a naked Jace in bed and murmured his name over and over, in a state of complete ecstasy.

_Stop it, _she told herself firmly. _You're not hooking up with him again. The plan backfired last time. Big time._

Clary forced her attention to Isabelle, who was still flailing wildly. Looking beyond the escort, Clary saw the silhouette of her brother in the doorway of the office. He leant against the frame, his arms crossed, watching Isabelle with a mixture of affection and annoyance. Clary guessed that was an accurate representation of what siblings felt for each other, though she had no way of knowing, being an only child. Briefly, she entertained the idea of having a sibling but shrugged it off. She just couldn't imagine what it would be like.

Jonathan Morgenstern didn't appear remotely perturbed by Isabelle's ranting. In fact, he saw it as a big, amusing joke. Clary swore she saw a flash of guilt shift across Jace's face, however, and something inside of Clary twisted tightly.

Isabelle finally stopped yelling and turned to face Jace and Clary who stood opposite each other, locked in a stalemate of glares.

"You two!" She threw her hands up. "I left you alone for five minutes and you disappeared to screw each other brainless! What's it going to take to keep your dick in your pants, Jace?"

Jace didn't take his eyes from Clary's but he answered calmly. "I've said it a thousand times and I'll say it again, Iz: I didn't screw her."

Clary exhaled, surprised at how willing he was to speak about it. "He's right." She said, still looking at Jace. His lip twitched when she spoke, as though he was highly amused by whatever she had to say. She cocked her head to the side, eyeing him up and down. "You know, you should wear a condom on your head. If you're going to act like a dick then you may as well dress like one too."

Silence met her words. Isabelle coughed to conceal her laugh and Alec ducked out of the room, an amused grin on his face. Jonathan and Jace blinked, as though their brains were still catching up to her words. It was Jonathan who spoke first. His voice was hard and faintly entertained. "She fights dirty." He said, and then he launched himself onto the stage, approaching her. Up close, Clary could see just how lean and muscular his body was. Seriously? Was every guy around here so well carved? His presence loomed over her and she fought the urge to shrink away. It wasn't that she didn't like him exactly...she just didn't like the way he looked at her so much. She thought Jace's gaze was predatory but it was nothing compared to Jonathan Morgenstern's.

Jace finally reacted, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, his gaze flicking to the restroom door. "You want to go again? This time, I can tie you up and seal your lips with duct tape; you talk too much, redhead." His golden eyes were like molten lava, swirling with some undecipherable emotion.

"Isabelle's your best bet." Clary responded sweetly. "There's not a single girl on this planet who would fuck you for free so you're gonna have to pay up."

Isabelle put her hands up, flipping her braided hair. "Alright, enough!" She said, eyeing both Jace and Clary with a mixture of amusement and irritation. "I was entertained until you dragged my sex life into it..._again_."

Clary shrugged, offering her an apologetic glance. Isabelle snapped her fingers at Jonathan.

"We're paying you to do something other than gawk idly." Isabelle said sharply. "You can be Clary's dance partner. I'd rather set fire to my vagina than let Jace and Clary dance together."

Clary thought Jonathan couldn't decide whether to be angry at Isabelle's disrespectful tone or amused at the rest of her words. He settled, thankfully, on the latter. "Not a nice visual, Iz." He said but he walked to Clary and placed a hand at her waist. His fingers were cold against her bare skin, his thumb grazing thoughtfully at the bottom of her crop top. Clary glared at him. _Cut it out._

"I can see why you almost screwed her, Jace." Jonathan called and Clary felt rather than saw his eyes scan every contour, every - minimal - curve of her body, his gaze sluggish on her skin. "I would."

Clary made a face, not liking the words on his lips. Isabelle came over to them and adjusted their positions. She explained to Clary that Jace and Jonathan had both undergone an intense day of training when she'd employed them but their knowledge was also helped by the fact that they had very little to do compared to the female dancers. Apparently, Seduce appealed to a male audience mostly, so the club tried to work their female dancers the most and not draw attention to the males. Jonathan and Jace seemed pleased by that, though they both adopted far too confident expressions for Clary to tell.

When they first started to move, Clary felt uncomfortable. She'd never danced like this with a boy before and she was consciously aware of how much skin she was showing. Isabelle had picked up on her discomfort right away and reprimanded her. After that, Clary settled into the role a little easier. She swayed and pushed and flexed against Jonathan and the boy never faltered as her partner. Clary copied the routine she practiced with Isabelle. Somehow, it was easier with her than it was with him.

"Move to the poles!" Isabelle called over the sultry, dark tones of the music. Clary swallowed. Here came the hard part. She'd learnt a basic routine two hours ago - one that didn't take her off the floor - and Clary still wasn't sure if she could pull off the seductive temptress she was playing. Nonetheless, she took Jonathan's outstretched hand as he guided her to the gleaming silver pole in the center of the stage.

His dark eyes never strayed from her body, drinking in the flashes of her flesh, inhaling her scent, his eyes hooded with desire. Clary, quite frankly, felt a little awkward at the whole affair. But she remembered the money and sighed, touching her hand against the cool metal of the pole.

She strutted and flipped her hair, curving in places she'd never curved before. When she'd finished with the pole, she entered Jonathan's arms again, and he tipped her, her back flexing over his arm. His fingers brushed the nape of her neck, fingering the red curls of hair that lingered there, sticky with sweat.

"Jonathan!" Isabelle turned off the music. "You missed a move."

Jonathan hissed, apparently not pleased. "Do you think I fucking give a shit?"

Isabelle rolled her eyes. "Cut the crap. It doesn't work with me." She said, her hand tapping against his shoulder. "Besides, you'll like this move." Isabelle budged him with her hip and took his place, her arm supporting Clary as she leaned back, still suspended against gravity. Clary felt Isabelle's head dip close to hers, her nose skimming lightly across her skin. Her face brushed Clary's collarbone, and stopped just above her chest. She knew she should feel weird with Isabelle's face so close to her breasts, but actually, it was a reprieve from the coiled bizarre feeling she felt around Jonathan. At least Clary knew what Isabelle was about. She took no crap and was black and white; Clary could read her easily. But Jonathan...

"How far?" Jonathan grunted.

"All the way." Isabelle told him solemnly. "Come on, do the last four steps again."

The music started again and Clary took Jonathan's hand as they danced the last few steps again. When he dipped her this time, her lips parted reflexively as Jonathan's lips grazed her collarbone, down...down...down.

She felt Jonathan inhale sharply and she tried to right herself, gracefully. Goosebumps rose on her skin and she shivered. She didn't like the idea of Jonathan being between her breasts. She felt like he was invading her privacy, despite it being an innocent dance move. The trembles she felt rippling over her skin were not of the same she felt when Jace touched her last night. These were sinister, warning her that something wasn't right.

But she was not going to kick up a fight. Not now. Not when Jace was sprawled out on the stage next to Alec, watching her with an intensity that set Clary's blood on fire.

His liquid gold eyes met hers, desire twisting in the irises. Clary felt a sense of power she'd never felt before. The way Jace was watching her, his eyes skimming Clary's body with none of the sickening weight Jonathan's did...It was intoxicating. Overpowering. It reminded her of last night, of the way he drank her in, hungry for every inch of her body. She remembered how dominating he'd been, remembered his hands wound tightly in her hair, wrenching her lips up to meet his. She remembered his scent, smoke and mint, enthralling her. She wanted that feeling again. That feeling of losing power and gaining it at the same time. That feeling of succumbing but resisting. That feeling she'd only ever felt in that restroom, on that washbasin counter.

The way he was looking at her...he wanted it too.

She saw him mouth something. "I should have screwed you when I had the chance."

She smirked and mouthed back, "You wish."

Perhaps working here with Jace wouldn't be so bad after all.

* * *

**Don't forget to review and let me know what you think! Any predictions? Character insights? I would love to hear your thoughts!**


	4. A Warning of Death

**So, another update! I've planted most of my plot points now, so here's where the real story begins to unfold. Let me know what you think! I want to hear your predictions, insights, thoughts! Anything! Update soon, my lovely readers! And there's more exciting stuff on its way!**

**Enjoy! R&R?**

* * *

Jocelyn Fray was becoming impatient.

It didn't help that she was stressed; a particular buyer was being rather persistent regarding her most recent painting – a picture of two lovebirds entwined in an intimate embrace. Jocelyn's mind also spent too much time dwelling on Valentine Morgenstern, and the chaos he was wrecking across the city. His business was failing, and Jocelyn wasn't sure how long it would be before Valentine took out his frustrations among the citizens. She almost felt guilty, but she couldn't bring herself to feel any remorse regarding her ex-husband and his deceiving antics. She was sure he had conned almost every major company in the city to buy from his business and she wasn't convinced they'd had a choice.

She'd seen the bank statements, though Valentine didn't know that, of course. Every few months or so, he'd have a large sum of money transferred to his account from a small secondary business in the city and then that business would go bust just two weeks later.

Coincidence? She thought not. Jocelyn Fray was intelligent, as well as impatient, and she knew there was more to Valentine Morgenstern than he portrayed. She was determined to discover the truth.

The doorbell chimed and Jocelyn uncurled herself from her cushioned chair to answer. She knew who it was – the interior decorator – and she was entirely prepared to don her stern, disapproving face at his tardiness, but when she opened the door, the entire façade slipped from her mind.

Not only was the man at her doorstep utterly attractive, but he stared at her with a solemn intensity that made Jocelyn pause for a moment. She wasn't susceptible to striking males, not since Valentine had screwed her over, but there was something about this man that struck her. She was consciously aware of her tatty clothes – she was wearing her checked shirt and gray yoga pants and they were both splattered unceremoniously in paint – and her tangled hair was pinned haphazardly at the crown of her head, tumbling in soft red waves over her face. She pulled her top down slightly, covering the slip of bare flesh at her hip, and spoke.

"You're here to decorate?" The words weren't entirely smart or witty, but the man smiled kindly anyway, his blue eyes crinkling slightly at the edges.

"Yes, ma'am." He said and he held out his hand for her to shake. Jocelyn couldn't help but admire the exact shade of blue in his eyes, pale and yet surprisingly bright, and the way his brown, ragged hair touched the tips of his ears slightly, curling wildly. His hand felt strong and firm in her grip, and she let go instantly, narrowing her green eyes.

"Jocelyn." She said, aware that he was speaking, and that she had interrupted him. She tried not to let the apology show on her face. Jocelyn wasn't very good at showing her true emotions, and refused to display any behavior that could deem her as weak to men's eyes. Valentine taught her that, and though she hated her cold outlook on life, she couldn't seem to shed it. She'd been hurt too many times before and was not going to let herself fall prey to pain again. "Call me Jocelyn." She repeated.

He nodded, watching her, his blue eyes intelligent and astute. Jocelyn thought the kindness in his gaze had to be false; no man could be so gentle – men like that didn't exist in anything other than the novels she read.

"Lucian Garroway. Luke." He informed her, and she jerked her chin in acknowledgment and then stepped back to let him in.

"You'll have to excuse the mess." She said lightly, her back to him as she led him out to the back studio. She felt stronger when she wasn't looking at him, more confident. Her knees felt steadier and that ridiculous worming in her stomach ceased. "It's an artist's habit, you see."

"I much prefer houses that look as though they are lived in." He responded. Jocelyn felt a tiny tremble shoot down her spine at the sound of his voice behind her, but she didn't let the feeling betray the strict expression on her face. What was wrong with her? "You'd be surprised how dull it is to walk through a home that looks as though it hasn't been touched since it came off the show room market."

"Oh?" Jocelyn wasn't very good at keeping conversation going, but this was her best shot.

"You can also tell much more about someone's personality by what lies around in their home." Luke said, and Jocelyn saw in the reflection of her French doors that he was looking around, eyeing the empty coffee mug and various unfinished canvases with something like appreciation.

"Like what?" Jocelyn hadn't meant to ask him, but the words slipped unbidden out of her mouth. She didn't turn around to face him, but kept on going, forcing him to follow her.

"Well," Luke said, pausing slightly. "I can see you have a daughter."

"Clarissa Adele." Jocelyn allowed and she cleared her throat to rid her of the choked feeling clogging her voice. "Clary."

"How old?"

"Eighteen. She'll be home in a moment; she's training at work." Jocelyn answered and then they were at the door to the studio. "In here is the studio you'll be working on."

She couldn't bring herself to open the door. If she let him in there, his employment would be sealed. Jocelyn couldn't deny she was drawn to his kindness, and if she employed him, what would she risk? Would she be opening herself to the manipulation of another male? Could she let him into her home, into her life?

Luke seemed to be confused by her hesitation and he stepped forward, into her personal space, and twisted the doorknob, a question in his eyes. This close, Jocelyn could see the few grey hairs in his scalp, the telling of his age. Jocelyn thought the look suited him. His eyebrows were drawn together with confusion, and his blue eyes scanned her face.

"Mrs. Fray?"

She snapped out of her daze, speaking reflexively. "Jocelyn." She corrected.

"Jocelyn." Luke confirmed, and the sound of her name on his lips seemed to stimulate her skin, raising goosebumps on her arms. What was she thinking? She was acting like a carefree teenager! She was an adult and she would not let any man make her feel anything less.

But she didn't feel like anything less. She felt younger under his patient gaze, but not weaker. He didn't patronize her or make her feel like a petty child.

Aware that she'd been stood in the open doorway of her studio for a few seconds too long, Jocelyn licked her lips and looked down, away from Luke, and stepped into the studio. She flicked the lights, bathing the derelict room into fluorescent light.

She heard him give a low whistle. "You realize this is going to take me a couple of months, right?"

"I'm aware."

"And that's going to cost you…several thousand." Luke sounded almost guilty for it, as though he didn't want to be a burden on Jocelyn. She didn't like it.

"I'm perfectly conscious of how much it is going to cost me, Lucian." She said coldly. He didn't seem to notice the ice in her tone and shrugged.

"Okay," He said. "You're an artist, right? Can't you draw me up a picture of what you want? I can cater better to a visual representation."

Jocelyn considered his request. "Okay, fine. You do whatever measures you need to do and I'll have that sketch done in an hour."

He saluted her, his eyes bright with humour. It wasn't until Jocelyn was back in the living room, pulling her sketchbook towards her, that she realized he may have been laughing her.

No man had ever laughed at her before. She wasn't sure how she felt about that.

* * *

Jace Herondale slung his bag over his shoulder, feeling the rough strap graze his leather-clad arm. Jonathan, beside him, was talking a low tone, and Jace nodded along in the appropriate places, not really listening but not brave enough to anger him. He thought he could pick out the words 'Seduce', 'Isabelle' and 'fuck her', but he couldn't be a hundred percent sure on that. He didn't really care, anyhow, who Jonathan decided to screw next, so long as it wasn't _her_.

Clary.

He'd been thinking about her all weekend and it had angered him that she had gotten under his skin so much. He hadn't seen her since they had helped her train in couple's work; Isabelle had focused the weekend's training on Clary's single dances, and Jace hadn't spotted her when he'd worked on Saturday night. It had frustrated him and he thought he'd felt a stab of disappointment. He'd promptly ignored it. Why should he care whether or not a certain red-haired girl turned up to work or not? Sure, he'd had a little fun with her but that was all it ever was: a quick fix. It meant nothing. So why did he feel like it did? Why did he want to go back for more?

"Earth to Herondale." Jonathan growled and Jace blinked, clearing his thoughts. "You alright, man? You've been a little…off."

Jace was actually surprised his friend had noticed; Jonathan Morgenstern wasn't known for his acuity of people's emotions. "I didn't sleep much last night." He said. The lie rolled off his tongue and he was surprised by how easy it was to withhold the truth from Jonathan Morgenstern with a straight face; he'd never lied to him before.

Jonathan shrugged. "So? You've fucked girls senseless all night before and partied the next day without a single hour of sleep."

Jace shrugged, mumbling intelligibly. He didn't like the way his friend was staring at him, as though he could see right into his soul.

Jonathan didn't mention it again however, so Jace figured he was off the hook. Jace clapped his hand over his best friend's shoulder in goodbye, and strolled into class.

When he saw her sat in the seat next to his – which was usually empty due to his classmates' fear of him – he stopped.

"Fuck." He muttered as he approached her. This was not what he expected, or wanted, to see first thing on a Monday morning.

She seemed to hear him. She looked up; her green eyes narrow as her gaze landed on him. He dropped his bag beside his easel and slinked into his seat, next to her.

"You're kidding." Clary said, under her breath. "You're studying art?"

He shrugged nonchalantly. "I'm working on a masterpiece, I'll have you know." He could tell she was as awkward as he was, and he tried not to look at her. His body stirred as he inhaled her clean, floral scent, remembering it from the other night. He remembered the way she clutched at him as he touched her, her nails digging into his skin. He still had the marks on his shoulders; eight tiny imprints, red and irritated. He tried not to scratch them now, and turned away from her so she wouldn't see how worked up he was.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Clary?" He asked simply, his voice low. He was aware of the other college students eyeing the both of them warily; they'd never seen Jace Herondale interact with a girl longer than the time it took for him to screw her. "I know I'm stunningly attractive but there's no need to stalk me at work _and_ college."

She flushed and Jace sensed more than he saw her swell with anger. "Fuck you, Herondale."

"You nearly did." He pointed out and watched as the pink in her cheeks darkened to a slow red. "Like I said, I'm happy to go for round two."

"Yeah, well, I'm not." She hissed furiously. "So you can take your pathetic arrogance and shove it up your own-"

"Now, now, Fray." He tutted, a smirk twisting at his lips. "Language."

Her lip curled and he regarded her coolly. Up close, and no longer under the influence of raging hormones or adrenaline, he could see she was actually kind of pretty. In a strange way. She was nothing like the girls he usually played around with, but there was a simple, feminine cuteness about the freckles on her nose, the dimple in her cheek, the brilliance of her green eyes. Jace supposed she was attractive and he had to admit, grudgingly, that he was still drawn to her, though he had no idea why. She wasn't particularly special, after all.

"I never pictured you as an artist." She said, after the awkward, tense silence had ensued from his reprimand. "You seem to be lacking in the qualities it takes to create art."

"Oh, really." He quirked an eyebrow, thoroughly amused. He acknowledged to himself the pleasure he felt at being able to speak to her without the watchful glare of Jonathan Morgenstern. He made a mental note to ask Clary about him, to see if anything had resulted of their lustful dance the other day. He hoped not.

He berated himself. Why should he care? If Jonathan wanted her, he could have her. She was just stubborn and insubordinate, influenced by no one. Jace didn't need that sort of complication in his life, anyway.

"Really." Clary confirmed. "You lack the imagination, ingenuousness and serenity of an artist."

"Spouting half-intelligent words doesn't make you _sound_ intelligent, you know." Jace said casually, plucking at the easel involuntarily. "It's like a child dressing as their parents. It's completely obvious that they are, in fact, not an adult, despite the fact that they're dressing like one. Throwing clever words into a conversation only emphasizes your stupidity."

She bristled. "Screw you."

"Only if you're offering." He smirked again. Clary was saved having to respond by the lecturer. She walked in, spoke about their assignment, and set them off to work.

Jace watched Clary. She seemed to spend the first five minutes of their set time deliberating, staring at the canvas with such intensity that Jace half-expected her work to unfold on the page straight from her mind. He was just about to point this out when she spoke, her voice cold and harsh, though Jace thought he could detect an ounce of hurt in her words.

"Do you want to explain why you bailed on me that night?"

Jace knew what she was talking about; the night they'd spent in the nightclub restroom. He grunted and faced his easel, not sure how to respond. Truth be told, he'd left her because he didn't want to be the one to take her virginity. He was a jackass, that was true, and he screwed around a lot, but even he wasn't so cold as to take a stranger's virginity from her; just a quick, heartless fuck in a nightclub's restroom. Where was the sense of dignity in that?

"Because I'm not into that sort of thing."

"What, sex with someone who _isn't_ a slut?" She still sounded angry and the offense still resided in her tone.

Jace's spine prickled. "It depends on your definition of a slut. You weren't exactly entirely virtuous in your actions that night either."

He heard her suck in a sharp breath, and he almost regretted the words.

Still, he carried on. "Besides, you didn't want me to screw you. When it came down to it, you recoiled. You were _afraid_."

He didn't mean the words to sound so harsh, but they did, and he watched with dismay as she flinched, anger and hostility in her green eyes.

He bit his lip, focusing on the charcoal line of his artwork, smudging it beneath his fingertips. Though he didn't want to, he pressed on, filling the silence with his thoughtless, hurtful words. "I just don't fuck around with inexperienced girls."

She hissed and Jace hid his wince. _Well done, Herondale. You've really screwed it up this time._

"Yeah, well," She said bitterly. "Like you said, I didn't really like the idea of fucking you, either."

Jace couldn't help it: He chuckled. He never expected her to be so…feisty. When he met her that night in the bar, he'd thought she'd be too shy, too fragile to work as a sex dancer. He'd thought she'd be dismissed within the hour. Perhaps his original judgment of her character had been wrong.

There was a clatter of a palette, the gasp of a nearby classmate, and the slamming of a door.

He looked up from his sketch as he began to feel the slow trickle of dampness creep down the back of his neck. Alarmed, he touched the liquid and his hand came away wet, sticky with crimson paint. He looked across at Clary, but she was gone, her canvas still moist with her work. He stared at it, half-aggravated, half-amused. Her picture was of him, there was no doubt. Underneath, written in the same crimson paint, were the words: _"Fuck you, Jace Herondale. With severe hatred, Clary."_

Yes. Jace had definitely underestimated Clarissa Fray.

* * *

When Isabelle's classes started on Monday morning, she slinked into class, overtired from the shift last night, and with a raging hangover. She wasn't wearing any of her usual attire of tight-fitting pants and leather jacket, but yet more yoga pants and a loose sweater. Her hair was knotted at the top of her head and her dark glasses hid the bags under her eyes.

Still, the boys eyed her. And Alec, standing beside her at lunch time, placed a hand at the small of her back protectively and guided her to class.

"Alec," She hissed. "I'm not fragile. I can't walk without support."

He grunted. "I don't like the way they look at you." He said disdainfully. "They look at you like you're a piece of meat."

"They look at me like I'm an _escort_." Isabelle snapped. "Which is what I am."

Alec didn't respond and the two of them walked to the cafeteria in silence. After a while, Alec changed the subject.

"What are you going to do about Simon Lewis?"

Isabelle shrugged. "What I usually do. Fuck him for all the money Jonathan Morgenstern owns."

Her brother rolled his blue eyes. "You know that's not going to work." He sighed. "Simon Lewis is not going to fall for some quick screw. The deal was you take his virginity. Lewis isn't going to just hand it to you on a plate."

"Why not?"

"Because if he was going to, he'd have done it already." Alec said as they strolled over to Jace and Jonathan Morgenstern. Isabelle prepared to leave, as she usually did, but Alec gripped her elbow. "They work for us, Isabelle. You're not running from them again."

Sighing, she had to admit Alec had a valid point. So, she raised her chin and looked Jonathan Morgenstern in the eye as he observed her walking towards them, a perfect blonde eyebrow raised. Isabelle was surprised he'd even turned up to college; he spent most of his days slumming around the city with Jace – he only even enrolled in classes because Valentine Morgenstern forced him to. Isabelle supposed the boys had to turn up a certain number of days a year or their parents would be notified.

She temporarily entertained the idea of Valentine Morgenstern losing his ferocious temper with his son Jonathan, and then dismissed the thought, thoroughly amused by the mental image.

When she reached Jonathan and Jace, the leader of the two hissed, "I see you're no further in completing your end of the deal, despite the two of us upholding ours."

"So far." Isabelle murmured, refusing to be intimidated by those black, soulless eyes. There was something about Jonathan Morgenstern that troubled her; he was too cold, too aloof, too confident. She refused to show him just how disturbed she was by him.

"When will you act upon your word?" Jace asked, casting an alarmed look at Jonathan, whose eyes had hardened to stone with temper.

"Well," Isabelle paused, adopting her own icy tone. "The two of you failed to mention that he wouldn't be an easy screw."

"So?" Jonathan purred, his earlier anger calmed. "What, exactly, is your point, Lightwood?"

"My _point_," She hissed, reminded of the night they'd employed her, when Jace had asked the same question. "Is that this is going to take a lot longer than I anticipated. How do you expect me to complete my end of the deal when he's frigid?" She threw out her arms, her gaze shooting to the boy across the cafeteria, who was pushing his glasses up his nose as he strode towards them. "He won't even do so much as glance at a girl in the wrong way!"

"You're simply not used to having a male not pay you any attention, Isabelle." Jace said, eyeing his fingernails with a critical eye. Isabelle noticed the tips of his golden hair had a pinkish quality – as though he'd dyed them red and it had washed out. He wasn't wearing the same clothes as earlier, either. "You're not attractive to everyone, you know. Besides, Simon doesn't listen to gossip; he has no idea you're a whore."

She scowled at him, fury blazing, but had no time to bite back as Simon Lewis and Jordan Kyle approached them. Jonathan clapped a possessive hand over Simon's shoulder, eyeing Isabelle coldly. Simon started babbling away to Jonathan, though it was clear his friend wasn't listening. The son of Valentine, at one point, even completely overrode Simon's words to talk to Jace, and Isabelle watched as Simon's shoulders sagged, his momentum lost, his eyes losing that flare of unfiltered passion. She felt something twist in her abdomen. Hatred for Jonathan, or pity for Simon?

"Come take a walk with me." She said, silencing the crowd. Simon looked at her, surprised.

"Me?"

She put a hand on her hip, sighing slightly. "Yes, you."

"But…why…okay." He shrugged, glancing at Jonathan. "I mean…you're okay if I go?"

Isabelle was disgusted that the boy even had to ask his friend for permission.

Jonathan looked at him coldly, the way someone would look at a dead cockroach. Isabelle doubted Simon noticed. He seemed to thrive under his friend's attention, invigorated by their words. Isabelle thought it a sickening relationship, parasitic almost, but then she hadn't much experience in friendships to really judge.

Simon followed her out of the cafeteria. She tried to slow her pace so that Simon could catch up, but she wasn't used to slowing down for her clients. Mostly she just made them follow her.

Somehow, she thought Simon would be an exception to most of her rules. She was going to have to work him differently. He didn't know what she was, after all, and probably thought she shared her company out of personal desire rather than a strategic career move. Instead of the nasty satisfaction she thought she'd gain out of the thought, she felt a pounding sadness. What would it be like to have no one want to spend time with you? To have everyone overlook you? She couldn't imagine.

In the golden rays of sunlight that bleached the white concrete of the Union – an expanse of patio and concrete lined with pot plants just outside the cafeteria, used for socializing – Isabelle could see that there was something kind of attractive about Simon; he wasn't the wart she had first assumed. Behind his glasses, brown eyes – soft with vulnerability – looked at her, his long lashes sweeping his cheek as he blinked. His face was still round – he had yet to grow into the sharp lines of adulthood, despite the fact that he was eighteen, just a year younger than her.

"So…" He said lightly, unsure what to say. "What do you want to talk about?"

Truthfully, Isabelle wanted to ask why he followed Jonathan Morgenstern around without the blink of an eye, without a second thought. But she thought it might be a little dangerous to broach that topic now, especially while she was on the 'get-to-know' stage of the mission. So instead, she switched on her flirtatious charms and smiled.

"How blind are you?"

He blinked, completely surprised. "Um…that's like asking a perpetually deaf man what a guitar sounds like. I don't know; I've always been this way."

She raised her eyebrows, pursing her lips. "Can I try them on?"

"What?"

She rolled her eyes, sighing. "Are you always this slow? I asked if I could try your glasses on."

"You…_you_ want to wear my glasses?" He stuttered, his face reddening. "Uh…sure. Here you go."

She knew the other boys in the Union were watching, sprawled against a picnic table, and she understood they discussed her body openly and unashamedly, like animals hunting after their mate. She knew they disrespected Simon and called him names behind his back – though they wouldn't dare do it in front of Jonathan Morgenstern. She didn't care what they said or thought. She took Simon's glasses and put them on her face.

"Holy shit." She breathed as her vision blurred out of focus.

Simon rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. Isabelle, who was in full-escort mode now, watched as his body language shifted, and noted as his gaze scanned her body, lingering at her curves, though they were mostly concealed beneath her baggy clothes and she doubted he could even tell what gender she was without his glasses. Seriously, he was that blind.

"They kind of suit you actually." He said, his eyes brushing her face. "You look cute. You know, like those girls that pretend they're nerds and wear Beatles shirts thinking it's just a credit to the insect?"

"Dumb social networking hipster nerds?" Isabelle made a face, genuinely disgusted. "Ew."

"No." Simon backtracked, and Isabelle thought it was because he felt he'd caused her offence. "You're cute. Um…not you, but the glasses- _They're_ cute, I mean. Not that you aren't super attractive because God knows you are. I mean…ugh," He stumbled over his words, turning away from her, and Isabelle felt a rush of satisfaction at seeing the dark flush creep up the back of his neck. So he _was_ affected by her feminine charms, after all.

Eventually, he looked up. "Can we start again?"

She shrugged, handing him his glasses back, being sure to brush her skin against his. He pushed them up to his eyes and held out his hand. "I'm Simon Lewis."

She shook it, feeling his warm skin touch hers. He had a light handshake – a reflection of his uncertain persona – and Isabelle felt a surge of something powerful within her. She couldn't quite make it out. Sympathy? Protection? Mild affection?

"Isabelle Lightwood."

He nodded, walking along again. "So, Iz," He tried casually, but stopped, wincing. "Can I call you that? Iz?"

"Sure." She said, trying to hide her amusement as he babbled.

"So, Iz," He tried again. "Do you play Dungeons and Dragons?"

Totally thrown off guard, she reeled. She was expecting compliments, or idle chatter, or even for him to pluck up the courage to ask to see her again. She'd never been asked if she liked a _video game _before. "What?"

"Dungeons and Dragons. This freaking awesome game of epic proportions that follows criminals as they rescue other criminals from dungeons guarded by…well…_dragons_."

She played off rule number one of escorting. Share hobbies. "I've heard of it and seen it on TV. It looks good but I haven't got the money to pay for it. It sucks because I really want to try it out." She lied, her mind whirring as she manipulated the conversation to her liking. Isabelle was nothing if not smart. She could read men like a book, and knew that they liked to think they were in control of conversations shared between them and a woman. It wasn't just her job expertise that made her tweak the conversation slightly, but the desire to install just a little more confidence in Simon, who quaked at anything that stood against him. No man should be inhibited by his own fears, and it was clear that Simon did fear something…she just couldn't quite figure out what.

She was going to. There was no doubt about that. Isabelle was intrigued by this boy. Perhaps it was because he was so different from the rest of her clients; he wasn't animalistic or cruel or just plain voracious. He was sweet, unassuming and kind of adorable.

Like she predicted, Simon brightened. "Do you…do you want to play?"

She nodded enthusiastically. "Yes!" She said, beaming. "Of course, I do."

"You should…um…do you want to…you could come over…if you want?" Simon stuttered. "I mean, I have it at home and you could come over and play with me if you want and I could show you just how awesome The Violated Sponge is. I mean, he breathes blue fire which is totally awesome because it lowers your enemy's Life Points by twenty two point three percent."

Isabelle smiled indulgently, recognizing the kindred spirit of a fanboy in Simon. "Sounds great." She said sincerely. "When-"

She was interrupted by an ear-splitting, terrorized scream.

Everyone froze, the sound ravaging the peace, raising the hairs on the back of Isabelle's arms. She was the first to move. She ran towards the sound, hearing Simon shout behind her.

"Isabelle, wait! It might not be safe!"

She didn't stop for him. The scream died to hysterical sobbing, and Isabelle turned the corner to enter the West Corridor, following the sound into the female restroom. She lunged inside and stopped, her mouth open in horror.

A girl was crouched by the wall, her head in her hands, violently howling. Isabelle approached her carefully, the way someone would approach a wounded animal.

"Are you okay?" She realized later just how stupid the words sounded on her lips.

The girl looked up, pinning her in her weeping gaze. That's when Isabelle saw the other girl, slumped against the restroom wall by the washbasins. Blood streamed from her nose, ears and eyes in thick, crimson runs. Her eyes were closed, and her skin held a pale, sickly pallor. Isabelle crouched beside the girl, ignoring the pounding of her heart, the lump in her throat and the shaking of her hand as she reached out to take a pulse. She stopped as her knee brushed the girl's side, and a crackle of plastic temporarily held her attention.

She stared at it, comprehension dawning. The plastic packet held the remnants of white powder and the crumpled polystyrene cup beside it leaked a cloudy, murky liquid. It didn't take mass intelligence to know the liquid contained the dissolved powder and that the girl had taken it.

Isabelle had heard the news recently and knew of the headlines that were plastered on the front pages. She remembered the titles as they flashed before her eyes, black and bold and nervy.

**BOY, FOUND DEAD, THOUGHT TO BE ON DRUGS**.

**POLICE ARE SUSPECTING DRUG INVOLVEMENT LINKED TO TEENAGE DEATHS.**

**KILLER DRUG DUBBED 'HEAVENLY FIRE' – OUTBREAK PREDICTED TO MOVE TO THE CITY.**

As if on repeat, Isabelle heard the news' reporter's voice. "This is the third death this month and Police are suspecting drug involvement. The source is unknown but symptoms include excess bleeding from the orifices, clammy skin and organ degeneration…"

Isabelle swallowed the bile that rose in her throat, aware that she wouldn't be alone much longer. Everyone in the Union heard the scream, and Isabelle was sure it would be merely seconds before the restroom was crowded with officials.

"Give me your gloves." She said to the frenzied girl, eyeing her thin gloves. "I want to check her pulse and I can't have my fingerprints on her body or I'll get blamed."

The girl ripped her gloves off and handed them to Isabelle. Adeptly, she donned them over her palms and pressed her fingers over the girl's pulse, her gaze averted from the blood masking the girl's face.

"Isabelle, what?" Simon fell through the door, spotted the blood and paled. "What's going on? Is she dead?"

The girl gave a frightened wail at his words but Isabelle, in a mist of unlikely calmness, only said, "Simon, you're in a girl's restroom."

"I don't care, Iz!" He said, his voice cracking. "I didn't want you throwing yourself into danger like that without help."

"So _you_ came?" Isabelle said skeptically, her eyes still on her fingers pressed against the girl's throat. She was starting to feel a rising panic, like a wave inside her, and _she still couldn't feel a pulse._

He didn't answer. "Isabelle." He said but she didn't answer. "Iz…Isabelle? Is she alive?"

Isabelle sat back, stripping the gloves off resignedly, feeling the blood rush from her face and dizziness settle over her like smog.

She didn't know how to answer. She'd forgotten how to speak. She didn't want to wait here for the teachers to come, or even worse, the police. She didn't want to face the questions, the accusations, the unspoken glares from the girl's friends.

She didn't know what to do. Because surely, surely this couldn't be happening. Not here. Not in college. And if the drug had spread here, who else was in danger? Alec wouldn't dare touch it, would he? What about Magnus? Isabelle had to admit there weren't many people she loved enough to worry about, but she spared a thought for those that did.

"Isabelle?"

She looked up, her eyes seeking Simon's kind ones. He held his hand out to her and she took it, clutching with fear and terror as she stared at the girl, the blood drying on her cheeks, making her appear like something out of a horror movie.

"Simon," She whispered, her voice cracking, locked in a perilous enclosure of her own fear. "She's _dead_. The drug killed her. She's dead."

* * *

**Don't forget to review!**


	5. Carnal

**Update! Enjoy! Let me know what you think in your review! What do you think is coming? R&R and update coming soon.**

* * *

Alec Lightwood pulled his hand down his face, marring his features momentarily. He groaned, and he could hear the stress he felt in the sound, feel it echo the tautness of his muscles. He stood at the foot of Magnus's bed, talking to him. Magnus lay on the mattress, his nakedness barely concealed by the comforter and his hands propped behind his red-glittered hair.

"Alexander, darling." Magnus murmured, his voice soothing. "What's wrong?"

Alec looked at him, feeling the sting of stress-induced tears prickle at his eyes. He blinked them back. Lightwoods were warriors; they never cried and he was not about to start now.

"Alec." Magnus sucked in a breath, seeing the grief in his blue gaze. "Talk."

"That's the second death." Alec muttered as he paced at the foot of the bed, Magnus's cat-like gaze following him back and forth, piercing. He paused and then continued. "The second drug-related fatality."

Magnus pursed his lips, his eyes flaring with understanding. The expression made his face more angular. Sharp cheekbones, deep set eyes, compassionate gaze. "Actually, I'm sure it's the sixth," he corrected. "Six Heavenly Fire related deaths in the past month."

"I'm not talking about the others." Alec said, his voice tightly controlled, waving Magnus away. "I'm talking about the most recent two. Both the victims were regular customers at Seduce."

Magnus's lips parted. "Oh," he said. "That's problematic, even if it is only coincidental. Do you think someone's supplying at the club?"

"It seems that way." Alec stopped and rubbed his cheek, an old habit of stress or confusion.

"Who do you think it is?"

He shrugged. "I have no idea," he said, pacing once more. "I'll have to employ bouncers. Do spot checks on the customers."

"You know that's not a good idea." Magnus warned. "Business is going down as it is; the last thing you need is to scare away your customers."

Alec threw up his hands. "But what if there is a link? If someone is dealing drugs in Seduce, I'll have a lot of unwanted trouble on my hands. Maybe even prosecution."

Magnus was quiet for a moment, thoughtful. Alec wanted to climb into bed with him, to kiss him, to hold him, but his agitated mind held him back.

"You need to watch them, Alec," he said eventually. "You need to play the part of a teenager. _God knows_ you are one. I know you took this club from your father but you're still young enough to actually use it. Whilst you're spying, perhaps you could have a little fun."

"Even if I went out the front, I'd be too strung up to have fun."

Magnus grinned a slow, sly smile, a knowing spark lighting his eyes. "I'll be here at the end of _every_ shift to relax you." He purred.

Alec ignored the quickening of his heart, the clench of his stomach. "You are insatiable." He said in a low voice. Magnus smiled up at him. Alec still stood at the edge of the bed, looking down upon Magnus's naked form. He didn't shy away from him – on the contrary, Alec appreciated his body: perfectly tanned with Asian descent, smooth and hard in all the right places. He wasn't bulky – Magnus preferred to use the muscles of his mind as opposed to those of his body – but Alec still found his mouth watering at the thought of touching him. He averted his gaze, swallowing.

"Come here." Magnus commanded, as if to echo Alec's thoughts. His firm tone set Alec's blood on fire and he turned slowly to meet his playful, lazy gaze.

Magnus crawled over to him, the comforter slipping from his body, baring his nakedness to him. Alec watched him carefully, the stirring in his stomach tightening the muscles of his abdomen almost painfully. Reflexively, his lips parted as his pulse quickened.

Magnus hooked a finger around Alec's belt loop and drew him in. Alec could taste the exotic flavor of his mouth when their lips brushed and it was impossible to resist tracing his tongue over Magnus's lower lip. He groaned into Alec's mouth.

"Come to bed, Alexander," he said, his voice almost pleading. Alec bit his lip. "Forget everything for a moment."

"I can never forget," said Alec, still staring at him intently. His body cast a shadow over Magnus's, blocking the light, and the angle threw his cat-like eyes into the single beam from the overhead lamp, radiating the green and gold within his irises. When Alec had first met him, he'd assumed they were contacts. But they were not; Magnus just had very strange colored eyes.

"Let me touch you." Magnus murmured. "You know how much I appreciate your body, Alexander." His fingers twined in the hem of Alec's black shirt. Alec felt the smooth graze of Magnus's knuckles against the flesh of his hips and shuddered. Magnus always succeeded in making Alec feel this way, warm like melted honey. Part of him thought it was love – or at least strong affection – but another part of him dismissed the thought. Alec Lightwood never loved anyone except his sister. The siblings had grown up in an isolated home, with parents constantly on the brink of divorce and a house too big for any of the family members to be caught in the same room, even accidentally.

"Isabelle…" Alec said now, wincing.

"I can't figure what's worse: the fact that, under arousal, it is your sister's name on your lips as opposed to mine, or that you're still worrying, even under my touch."

Alec choked. "I'm not aroused by my sister." He felt compelled to say. "I'm just worried about her; she's still withdrawn. It's been five days since she saw the dead girl."

Magnus paused, his hands pressing into the dents of Alec's hips. "She will be fine. Besides, I'm sure she's working her shock to her advantage; Simon makes a good listener."

Alec hummed as Magnus's fingers massaged his abdomen, coaxing. "You think she is playing escort still, even after everything that's happened?"

Magnus flashed a grin. "I think she's playing escort _especially_ because all this has happened. Isabelle is no fool." His face moved closer until his hot breath warmed the flesh of Alec's v-lines. "Can we not talk about your beloved sister, Alexander?"

"What do you want to talk about?" Alec responded, feeling the telltale twinge of arousal deep in his abdomen.

"Well," said Magnus, and Alec felt a hot path slide down to the waistband of his pants – led by Magnus's tongue, punctuated by small, soundless kisses. "I'd rather not talk about anything, quite frankly," he growled, his fingers adeptly unbuckling the loop of Alec's pants. Alec held his breath, his heart hammering beneath his chest. Magnus was careful to rub against Alec when he pulled his zipper down, and the friction against his semi-hard cock made him gasp. Magnus smiled slowly and Alec bent down to kiss him. He hadn't been in the mood for this, but now he was. Magnus had that ability to completely undo Alec, and he embraced it.

Alec climbed over Magnus, their mouths colliding in a frenzy of heated kisses. Magnus's hand smoothed over Alec's spine under his shirt, resting at the waistband of his pants. In seconds the clothes were off, and Magnus – stark naked – brushed against Alec's briefs, causing the boy to moan. Magnus swallowed the sound, and Alec tried not to whimper as his hand slid under the waistband of his briefs to squeeze his ass cheek.

"Magnus…" he groaned as the pressure of Magnus's hand against his behind shot straight to his cock. He knew he should worry about what was going on with Heavenly Fire but his body refused to listen to his mind and he found himself arching against Magnus, who rubbed his thighs against Alec's, their groins touching barely. Bare skin against clothed. Alec couldn't take it anymore. "Magnus, please."

Magnus's hand slid over the skin of Alec's hip, still beneath the waistband of the boxers, descending down, his palm brushing over his short pubic hair. Alec sucked in a sharp breath, rocking against Magnus's hand, kissing his tanned shoulder. In response, Magnus chuckled and his fingers curled around his length. Alec tipped his head back away from Magnus, moaning.

"I really _would_ like to kiss you, Alexander." Magnus told him, reaching for his arched neck to bring their lips together. Magnus's hand pumped once as they kissed and Alec whimpered.

"Don't stop." Alec breathed and Magnus smiled against his lips, his hand gently shifting up and down beneath the fabric of his briefs. His thumb brushed Alec's tip and Alec jerked against him, the sensation overwhelming. Magnus tugged the boxers down with his other hand, until they were flush against each other, their skin rubbing with hot friction. Magnus pumped his cock with a frenzied need and Alec rolled them over, so he lay against the mattress and Magnus straddled his hips. He clutched at the sheets, bunching the material in his hands as Magnus continued to thrust his hand against him. Alec squeezed his eyes shut, in a state of ecstasy too intense to feel embarrassment or humiliation. He could feel the heat of Magnus's erection against his thighs; feel his unconscious rocking as he worked Alec. He was so caught up in his own stimulation that he didn't notice Magnus's position shift until he felt the hot, damp feel of his tongue against his tip. Alec cried out and Magnus's tongue flicked in response, licking the bead of pre-come that had accumulated at the head.

"Holy shit, Magnus." Alec whispered, his mouth open in a silent moan. "Please…"

"Do you want me to take you in my mouth, Alexander?" he asked, and Alec shuddered. He whimpered and nodded, and Magnus's hot breath fanned out over his groin as his head lowered against him. Alec twined his fingers in his red-glittered hair, guiding him down, drinking in the sounds of Magnus's mouth sucking him, savoring the sensation of his tongue coaxing him. Magnus lowered his head until Alec's cock was entirely in his mouth, and Alec felt the tantalizingly frustrating sensation of Magnus's gag reflex contracting against him. He pushed at Magnus's shoulder, the flush of frenzy initiated by the reflex reaction proving almost too intense.

Magnus looked up and smiled, his eyes flashing with fun. "That felt good, didn't it, Alexander?"

"Magnus," Alec collapsed against the sheets, his body shaking with sensitivity. "If you did that much more…"

"Then what?" Magnus rolled his eyes when Alec didn't speak. "You know I like to talk about this."

"I would have come." Alec said softly, his blue gaze meeting Magnus's green-gold one hesitantly. Sweat slicked the two of them, and the scent of it was overwhelming, intoxicating. Not too sharp or stale, but dark enough and seductive enough to invigorate Alec. "Soon, too."

"I know how much you like deep-throating, Alec." Magnus's voice was low as he splayed a hand over Alec's chest, tanned fingers against startlingly pale skin. Alec shivered at the words as Magnus lowered his head to kiss Alec's abdomen, and he drew him up to his lips, kissing with a fervent need, wrenching his hand in his hair. It was true that he _did_ like deep-throating, but Alec also knew exactly what Magnus preferred in the bedroom. He lifted his hips against Magnus's, pulling his head back roughly, claiming his mouth with his own. Magnus moaned as Alec's lips trailed down Magnus's jaw, over the swell of his adam's apple, resting at the hollow at the base, where his pulse hammered against his skin. His teeth grazed his tanned flesh, tongue snaking out. He felt Magnus tense and Alec hummed with pleasure as his hand snaked out to graze the insides of Magnus's thighs, his fingers curling around his balls, massaging lightly. Magnus gasped in Alec's mouth and broke away.

"Alexander, darling," his voice was choked. "I'm already close as it is…"

Alec raised his eyebrows. Magnus was usually very composed in the bedroom, and it took Alec a long while to bring him to ejaculate. He must've been really frustrated to be brought close this soon, and Alec had to admit he had no complaints; he too could feel the warning thrum in his veins, the almost-painful clench of his stomach muscles.

"Alec," Magnus moaned, his voice taking on a needy edge as Alec massaged him and sucked at the skin of his neck. "You know I like to see you come first."

He hesitated slightly. Magnus did get off on Alec being the first out of the two to come, though Alec didn't understand why. Nonetheless, he was ready and he didn't want to deny Magnus that which would bring him heightened pleasure. So, Alec shifted his weight, moving his hands to safer places, running his hands up Magnus's chest, over the bend of his shoulders. Magnus smirked as he let out a breath, and their lips crashed together for a moment, Alec thrusting his tongue between Magnus's teeth, absorbing the growl of pleasure that emanated from the back of his throat. Too soon, the kiss was broken and Magnus lowered himself, his face kissing the skin on Alec's chest, stomach, hips, and finally…_there_.

He was brusque too. There was no playing around this time, no tantalizing or teasing or foreplay. Magnus took Alec's member into his mouth and Alec thrashed his head from side to side as his blood throbbed with intense desire, Magnus's tongue stroking his length with a coaxing speed. Alec wound one hand in Magnus's glittered hair, pulling tightly, eliciting a groan of satisfaction from Magnus. The sound shot right to his groin, the vibrations running down his cock. He could feel the clenching of his abdomen and he gasped. Sharp jabs of pleasure shot through him and he couldn't think, couldn't see through the power of his arousal.

"Magnus, I'm close…" he breathed and Magnus's hand wrapped around his base, pumping alongside the thrusting of his mouth. Twice the action. Twice the stimulation.

"Come for me, Alec." Magnus purred quietly. "Come on."

Magnus pumped him faster, his tongue flicking over his tip. Alec could feel the sensation climbing within him at his words, his muscles coiling…

And unraveling. The sensation crashed, bathing him in overpowering pleasure. Alec jerked and cried out, "Shit!"

Waves of rippling fire caressed his skin and Magnus massaged his orgasm out as he exploded, coming into Magnus's expectant mouth. Magnus swirled the cloudy, sticky liquid between his lips and Alec watched, transfixed by desire and longing, as he swallowed. He moved to his stomach next, his tongue snaking out to lick the few beads of semen that had landed there. Alec clenched his muscles, tense, the last remnants of his orgasm releasing within him, a pool of fire in his abdomen. Spent, he relaxed, until Magnus's eyes flickered up to his, waiting, a single eyebrow raised.

"Come now, Alexander," he reminded gently, his voice roughened with the oncoming of his arousal. "Don't be unfair."

"I'm not," he said as he drew Magnus toward him. He could taste himself on his lips, salty and metallic. He didn't mind. Magnus had satisfied him, now it was his turn to do the same. He would take great pleasure in doing so.

Magnus _had_ succeeded, he supposed. Alec had completely forgotten his troubles, though they still remained like a shadow over him; he had forgotten his plight…for now. And as he tangled his fingers in Magnus's hair, the red glitter coming off onto his skin, he couldn't help but feel gratified to Magnus. He always knew just what to do to chase the problems away.

* * *

Clary cursed colorfully as she fell from the pole and landed on her hip, bruising the pale skin there. She'd thought she could do it; thought she could support her weight on the shaft. She had gone running three times and taken four muscle conditioning classes since employment and she knew they were helping. She felt stronger, suppler. She knew she had a long way to go still, but the sense of improvement motivated her to move to the poles. She'd completed a third of Isabelle's routine with surprising ease, but one particular movement still proved too difficult and…well, here she was, sprawled on the stage floor which wasn't exactly soft.

She stood, brushed herself off and examined her hip. An angry red mark had already developed and she knew that it would be agony tomorrow. She hissed as she prodded it, and prayed it wasn't chipped or permanently damaged.

She stalked over to her bag and reached for her cell phone. Isabelle and Alec had both agreed to give her keys to the club so she could train when she had free time, alone. Clary had unlocked the place this morning, but hadn't bothered to turn the lights on apart from those that lit the stage. She preferred to feel as though she was in a world of her own, and that was made easier by the darkening of the rest of the room.

Her phone flashed with a notification from Sera News. She had enabled alerts so that she would be told if a particular news story was published that focused on her city. She opened the app and looked for the article.

It was hard to miss. The headline was splashed across her screen and a sickening feeling twisted in her stomach.

**New lead on Heavenly Fire supplier.**

_Evidence emerging from the death of Maureen Brown two days ago brings forth a name of a potential supplier._

_The victim received a text three hours before her death warning her of dosage. The text read: 'Don't take more than thirty grams; it'll kill you.'_

_Since the autopsy proved Brown had only taken ten grams and it still proved to be a lethal dosage, the case is being treated as homicide as it is likely the supplier would have known that smaller quantities of the drug could also lead to death._

_The text was listed under contact name 'Sebastian' though when Police attempted to track the phone, they discovered Sebastian's phone was disposable and therefore unable to be traced._

_There are factors that link Maureen Brown's case with the deaths of five other teenagers in the area. Police are anticipating that the person behind this may have acted before and are quick to remind the public that withholding information is a criminal offence as this is now being treated as first degree murder and one of many serial killings._

_If anyone has further information, please report to the police using the number listed at the bottom of the page._

_Helen Blackthorn, Sera News._

Clary let out a long breath. Sebastian. The name was familiar to her, but not because she knew the supplier. Her ex-boyfriend from four years ago had been called Sebastian, but Clary knew he was far away. He'd moved to Australia – the reason for their break up. She hadn't minded so much. He had been sweet to her, and kind, but Clary had always had the feeling that they were wrong together; that something wasn't quite right.

She dumped her phone back into her bag and ran a hand through her red hair, sticky with sweat. The knowledge that someone was out there, supplying a deadly poison to teenagers, was eating her up inside. Isabelle had seen the impact of the drug first hand. Clary hadn't been able to gleam many details – Iz had been too shaken up to talk – but she knew that it could have been any of them. Instead of Maureen or Ash or Lily or any of the victims, it could have been her or Isabelle or _Jace._

She didn't know why she cared so much. So what if he took the drug? If he killed himself because of his own stupidity then what did it matter to her?

But she couldn't deny that it did. _It did_ matter to her. _She did_ care. She wanted Jace safe and she couldn't explain why.

Growling in frustration, she yanked off her sweater and threw it to the ground. Her skin was hot with exertion and her stomach glistened with sweat beneath her black crop top. She gripped hold of the pole, feeling the welcoming cold metal cool her feverish skin.

She'd go back to the single's routine later. For now, she'd practice her couple's dance.

Clary was well aware that she had no partner, and therefore it wasn't really a couple's dance, but she didn't care. She had only two choices in that department, and neither of them appealed to her. She hated Jace, and Jonathan…she didn't like the way he looked at her. It was so filled with hunger, with a craving of something much darker than teenage desire. Clary couldn't place it. Something about him was just…off.

She walked through the moves first, replaying Isabelle's words in her head as if she were right there, guiding her. _Tense your ass there, Clary. No, keep your neck strong. Your arms are too wobbly – they need to be rigid._

She marked the routine twice and then went to the sound desk to switch the music on. Dark, enticing notes swirled around her, promising, alluring. She walked slowly to the pole, one step in front of the other, pretending someone was stood on the other side. She didn't picture a face exactly; both the ideas of Jonathan and Jace distracted her from the routine, so she kept it a faceless stranger, a nobody.

She swayed and arched and flexed and swished when she was supposed to, trying to force as much seduction and charm into her movements as she possibly could. She recognized her cue to dance on the pole and this time, instead of her feet being grounded, she lifted herself up, feeling her muscles shake with exertion as she supported her weight for the millionth time that day. She held herself steady though, and circled the pole in the air, feeling as though she was flying. When her feet hit the floor, she had to fight to keep her balance, disoriented slightly.

The music shut off suddenly and she froze. "Hello?" She called into the silent darkness. The hair on her arms lifted and she shivered. "Who's there?"

"_So overused_, redhead." A mocking voice said and Jace stepped into the beam of light from the stage. His golden hair was brighter under the spotlight, and his face was all angles. Sharp cheekbones, soft lips, angular jaw. His mouth was shaped into a sardonic smirk. "What was the face you were pulling, anyway? Was that your concentration face or you trying to be seductive?"

She gritted her teeth together, anger flaring. "Piss off, Jace."

"I liked the added touch on your painting, by the way," he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. "Back at art class last week?"

"I'm glad you appreciated it," she said sourly. "Although it clearly made no difference since you're still here."

He huffed, amused. "Were you doing a couple's dance?"

"So what if I was?"

"Well, typically, you need a partner for a couple's dance," he said, his annoying smirk growing. His liquid golden eyes appraised her, looking her up and down. The weight of his gaze pressed on her skin and she fought not to look away.

"I'm well aware of that, thank you."

"You've hurt yourself," he said, a frown drawing above his eyes. "How?"

"I fell," she said, almost unwittingly. "Isabelle said it happens all the time."

"Only to those that are incompetent." Jace responded, tapping his finger against the silver pole. The ring resounded across the vacant club. "And since you are not..."

"I'm sure there's a compliment in there somewhere." Clary snapped and turned away from him, massaging her hip which was throbbing painfully.

"Did you make a mistake?"

"Obviously, given that, you know…I _fell_."

He gave a soft chuckle. "Are you always going to play difficult?"

"I'm not _playing_ anything," she responded sharply. "Why are you here?"

"I came to practice." He said, tapping the pole again. Clary was starting to find it annoying. "Isabelle said I'd find you here, though she gave me very explicit, honestly _violent_ descriptions of what would happen to my cock if you and I…ah…_strayed on a tangent again."_

Clary shivered, though it had nothing to do with her temperature and more with the way his eyes drifted over her, molten golden darkened with heat. And something else.

She turned away from him and gasped as her hip flared.

"Let me see that," he said, and his voice was gentle, persuasive. Clary stopped, surprised. She'd never thought of Jace as the gentle kind, couldn't fathom him acting any other way than his annoying self.

"It's fine," she growled through teeth gritted with pain. "It's just a bruise."

"Can't I make that judgment for myself?" he asked cordially. "Let me look at it." He crouched and shooed at her hands, until she sighed and moved them off the mark. He sucked in a sharp breath. He was so close that Clary could see the individual golden hairs on his head, feel his breath stir the goosebumps on her stomach. His fingers caressed the mark lightly, examining it, and she fought the tremble that threatened to run down her spine, ignored the sizzle of electric that prickled her nerves.

"Nasty bruise," he murmured, golden eyes flickering up to hers, concerned. "It'll hurt a lot more tomorrow."

"So?" Clary said, harsher than she meant to. She couldn't understand where this sudden compassion had come from, especially when he was so cruel to her the other day.

"So it's best to practice now before the pain gets too bad."

"What kind of logic is_ that?"_

He smirked and Clary could see his old, usual self returning. "Why were you attempting a couple's dance alone?"

"Because, as you have already pointed out, I had no one here to practice with." Jace only looked at her, his eyes filled with mirth. Clary sighed. "I don't want to ask Jonathan."

"Why?"

"Because I just don't."

"Do you find him," Jace paused and his voice dropped, lower, "unnerving?"

"That's an understatement." Clary thought the original pain of her hip was fading slightly now, so she balanced out her weight across both of her feet. His eyes followed her movements acutely and Clary blushed under his watchful gaze.

"So why didn't you call me?"

Clary turned away, taking a swig out of her water bottle. "Because," she said bluntly, "I don't like you, remember?"

Suddenly, he was right there, his chest brushing against her spine, his fingers pressing lightly into her shoulder. She could feel his breath stirring her hair, feel the trace of his lips barely brush the skin behind her ear. Flashes of their evening together in the restroom dashed through her mind and she clenched her fists, not angry, but yearning.

"Your body betrays you." He whispered, his hand skimming down her arm to rest at her wrist lightly. His warm breath breezed over her ear and her lips parted against her will. She wanted to move away, but couldn't bring herself to do so. "Shallow breathing…a fresh layer of frankly _enthralling _sweat…a rapid pulse. You don't hate me, Clary. Quite the contrary: you _want_ me."

"You're describing the symptoms of exercise, Jace," she said calmly, a stark contrast to the emotion turmoil inside her. "And deluding yourself into thinking they're a sign of lust I feel for you."

He grinned, flashing white teeth. "If that's the truth, you'll dance with me."

"No." She stepped away, her stomach lurching with excitement at his words.

"You just proved me right," he said, pointing a finger at her, moistening his lip. Clary remembered staring at his mouth that night in the restroom as he rocked against her, remembered the parting of his lips as he moaned. The desire to run her finger across his mouth was strong, as was also the desire to kiss him. She repressed both. "Denial. First sign of unexpected lust."

"I'm not denying anything," she protested.

"_Prove_ it," he hissed, his eyes daring. "Dance with me."

How could she refuse that kind of challenge? Reject it and she would be humiliated by Jace for the rest of her time spent here. But accept it…accept it and she might be dragging herself into more trouble than she needed. Jace was dangerous and unpredictable. Could she get involved with someone like that? Because she knew, if she stepped into his arms, there was no going back. They were standing on the edge of precipice. The choice she made now dictated their relationship in the future. She could decline and never have anything to do with Jace Herondale again…or she could accept.

"Fine." She licked her lips, her mouth dry. "I'll dance."

He smirked and she almost regretted the choice. He reached into his back pocket and produced the remote for the sound system. He pressed play, slid the remote to the floor and held his arms out to her.

"Heels, redhead," he noticed as she stalked towards him. "Nice."

"My name's not 'redhead', you know," she told him, keeping her eyes fixed on his. There was no hint of malevolence in his gaze, no hint of danger. He was light, playful, and Clary wondered idly if _this_ was the real him, or if Jonathan's Jace was.

"I'm perfectly aware," he said as their hands met. "This time, try and feel the music. Feel your partner. _Feel me._ You're forcing too much seduction into your moves. Just let me guide you and you'll _feel the desire._ It should be innate, Clary." She heard his words but didn't respond. She pressed herself flush against him, her leg climbing his, hooking around the back of his knee. The dark music pulsed around them, drawing them closer. He kept his hand firmly in hers, the other pressed against the underside of her thigh, pinning her against him for a moment before his hand slid from her leg to the naked small of her back. She stared at him, feeling her pulse thud in her chest, as he dipped her in a neat circle. She wanted to have something to complain about, to criticize his dancing, but she couldn't find anything. His arms were taut against her, supporting her, and she could feel the swell of muscles underneath his light shirt. So he worked out. His stance was relaxed but strong; she could have thrown herself against him and he wouldn't have budged. Every movement she made he anticipated and was there to support her through it.

Clary remembered dancing the same routine with Jonathan. He hadn't been anywhere near as attentive as Jace; hadn't watched her like he did. Jonathan watched her as though she was stripping for him. Jace watched her as if there was no one else in the world to watch. As if he could watch her all day and not get bored. He devoured the sways of her hips, the arch of her back, the elegant curve of her chest against his. Clary thought she saw a trace of regret in his gold eyes when she moved to the poles, stepping out of his grasp. She felt cold immediately, and found herself half-rushing through the moves so she could step back into his embrace once more. Taking a deep breath, she slowed herself, but her frustration was rising. She wanted him to touch her again, for his hands to brush her bare skin.

She sauntered back to him, flipping her hair the way Isabelle had shown her. Jace swallowed but he never wavered in drawing her close. His hands clasped her waist, his fingers brushing the underside of her breasts. She exhaled, heat burning through her. She was hyperaware of him; every nerve was on fire. She could feel the sensation of his hips pressed against hers, the pressure of his hands against her chest. She heard him suck in a sharp breath through his teeth when he dipped her once more and his lips brushed the hollow of her throat. Clary felt flames sizzle across her skin and she didn't stop him when his face inched lower and lower, until his mouth kissed the soft skin of her breast, his tongue snaking over her cleavage. She closed her eyes, pleasure sweeping through her. She didn't know dancing could make her feel like this; she'd gone over the same routine with Jonathan but Jace made it feel different. Jace dancing with her was exotic and passionate and carnal. He made her feel like molten lava, like electric, like a raging inferno of desire.

The music ended and Jace pulled her back up against him. They stared at each other, the both of them breathing quick, shallow breaths. She could feel his chest rise and fall against hers and his hands had moved to her lower back, holding her there. She moistened her lips and his eyes flickered to her mouth. She cleared her throat and stepped away, her body screaming at her for doing so.

"Probably best that you did that." Jace said, eyeing her as she turned away from him. "My cock would have been in severe danger of Isabelle if you hadn't."

She flushed, the heat seizing her rational thought. She could still feel his touch lingering on her skin, still feel his gaze on her body.

The worst part was; she didn't hate him for it.

What was happening to her?

* * *

Raphael Santiago and Jonathan Morgenstern weren't the best of friends. In fact, bound by a blood feud instigated by their ancestors, the Santiagos and Morgensterns were technically mortal enemies. So when Jonathan Morgenstern spotted him walking the back streets of the city, his natural response was to stalk him.

Raphael was no fool. Upon entering a misty, darkened ally, he turned and faced Jonathan.

"Why are you following me?" Jonathan asked coldly, his voice concealing any emotion he felt.

Raphael narrowed his dark eyes. He was of Spanish descent, and looked the stark opposite of his nemesis. Valentine's son had white hair and black eyes. Raphael was tanned with his heredity and his black hair often fell over his vision. They were the only two in the alley, which was hidden away from the main streets of the city, and cluttered with abandoned junk. There was a bicycle next to Raphael, and a nasty looking pile of muck beside that.

"I could ask the same to you," he responded in kind. The two of them stared each other down, a ploy for power. Jonathan Morgenstern won; Raphael couldn't look him in the eye for too long. His glare was cold, inhuman, and seemed to suck the life from him.

"You knew I was here." Jonathan said, eyeing his fingernails casually. Raphael inferred he learned the habit from Jace Herondale, whom he had no qualm with. Santiago suspected Herondale only did what Jonathan Morgenstern wanted because he owed him loyalty.

"I know what you're doing…Sebastian."

Jonathan's eyes flickered up to his, bored and distasteful. Raphael had hoped that using his other, secret identity would unsettle him, but the fair boy didn't even appear fazed. "Do you." It wasn't phrased like a question. "Am I supposed to be concerned?"

"I can stop you." Raphael threatened. "You're ruining the city, destroying the people. You can't carry on with this."

Jonathan Morgenstern rolled his eyes – the first act of true youth he had ever shown Raphael. He always appeared so superior, untouched by humans emotions. "Santiago, the first rule of playing the powerful: don't make threats you can't follow through."

"Like you're not guilty of that." Raphael hissed, disturbed by the boy's cool manner.

"For the first time in my life, I can claim innocence." Jonathan mused, faint humor in his twisted leer. "Make threats you'd be willing to carry out. For example, I'd be perfectly willing to run you through with that bicycle spoke over there if you so much as breathed an illicit breath."

Raphael exhaled slowly. He had no doubt the boy meant every word. He was in a very dangerous predicament.

"I will go to the authorities." Raphael raised his chin, sounding braver than he felt. "The Police will know it was you."

"You can't prove it." Jonathan said indifferently. "There is no evidence that leads back to Jonathan Morgenstern. Not a single hair."

"But there's evidence that leads to Sebastian."

"Sebastian doesn't exist. My name in the underworld is simply adopted – there are no formalities entitling me to it – I could drop it at a moment's notice."

"But you won't."

"No." Jonathan conceded. Raphael was overcome with the sudden feeling that Jonathan Morgenstern was playing around with him, the way a wolf played around with a rabbit before eating it. "I won't. Sebastian is the name of the king of the underworld and _I am that king."_

"You won't be freed from your crimes forever, Morgenstern."

"Say what you have to say." Jonathan responded icily. "I am growing bored of your repetitive, useless, _pathetic_ threats."

Raphael took his chance. He lunged at the boy, aiming for his face, but Jonathan stepped calmly aside, faster than Raphael anticipated, and he fell, hitting the floor with a sharp jolt, Morgenstern laughing coldly above him. He kicked at his legs, aiming to trip the pale-haired boy up, but Jonathan simply seized him by the back of his neck and pinned him to the wall, his gloved hands bunching Santiago's shirt in his grasp.

"You never learn, Raphael Santiago." Jonathan muttered. "You force a man to enact his threat and now, here we are: you pinned against the wall with a bicycle spoke aimed over your heart. Pity."

Raphael looked down, feeling the thin, needle-like spike press against his chest. Raphael held his breath, fear jolting through him.

"Is there anything else you'd like to say?" Jonathan sneered, mirth dancing in his soulless eyes. "Any last words?"

"I'm not the only one that knows…" Raphael breathed, his fear silencing his voice. He spoke the words not as a dying lament, but as a weapon; another wound inflicted upon Valentine's invincible son.

"About the drug?"

"No." He shook his head and stopped when the spoke dug deeper into his skin. A bead of crimson soaked his shirt. "About Clary."

"My sister?" Jonathan asked incredulously. "What about her?"

"That you played the role of her boyfriend and seduced her." Raphael spat, disgust crawling up his spine, despite his precarious predicament. "That your incestuous mind threatens her safety. There are others out there – like me. Guardians of the city. _They won't let you hurt her."_

Jonathan smiled and Raphael's body numbed with ice. It was not the smile of joy, but the smile of a killer. The smile that promised death. "There is no one on this earth that can protect Clary from me. She and I are one in the same. The same blood, the same people, the same souls. She _belongs_ to me."

"Why are you letting your puppy play around with her then?"

"Jace?" Jonathan shrugged. "It'll be fun to see the torture play out on his face when he sees that I own her. I share with my brother, but I _will not_ share my sister. Jace will learn that; sooner or later.

"I'm bored of your idle threats and pathetic accusations." Jonathan said insouciantly. "Here is a prime lesson for you. I follow through with my threats, Raphael Santiago. And I always will."

Jonathan plunged the spoke into Raphael's chest. Pain exploded over his vision and he gasped, slumping down the wall. Jonathan said nothing, but yanked the spoke out only to drive it into another unblemished place on his torso. The spike was tiny, the wounds miniscule, and the blood that spilled was only enough to fill a tablespoon. It moistened his shirt, told of the pain and death that Raphael could feel coming, like a shadow lurking over him. He was dying. Jonathan Morgenstern was killing him.

"This is quite entertaining." Jonathan admitted, as he pulled the spoke out of Raphael's chest and drove it into his abdomen. Raphael wanted to scream, to writhe with the agony he felt, but he couldn't. He could only lie there, as Jonathan Morgenstern made a pin cushion out of him, dying with slow trickles of blood that oozed from his body.

After the fortieth wound, Raphael was dead, and Jonathan Morgenstern threw down the rod, spat over his body, and walked away, a casual, cold whistle emanating from his lips. There was no one around for miles; no one to find Raphael's body, to hear the icy chill of Jonathan Morgenstern's deadly song.

The monster had struck, and it would not be the last time he did.

* * *

**Don't forget to review! Which section did you prefer? Malec, Clace or Raphael's rather violent demise? Let me know!**


	6. The Calling of Trouble

**So it's been a while since I've updated and I am incredibly sorry about that. My other fic is coming to an end so I've spent my last couple of days planning it. That on top of university applications has meant that this story has had to take a back seat. But no matter – the update is here now!**

**Let me know what you think. There was a reviewer that informed me that 'a place where there are strippers is not a nightclub you know.' Just like to say: I'm fully aware of that, but for the sake of my story and its plot, the two places have amalgamated. Besides, Alec has some restrictions on who can enter – none too young, of course. ;) Thank you to all those that reviewed my last chapter – I read every single one of them and am so grateful for your comments.**

**R&R and update soon.**

* * *

"Oh my God," Simon shouted, throwing his arms out irritably. "I should have won that! I had more Life Points than him! This game is so annoying! I. Should. Have. Won. That."

He was aware of how ridiculous he looked, arguing with a computer game, but it was maddening. Beside him on the couch, curled up against one of his suede cushions, Isabelle watched him. She had sat beside him at first, her leg brushing his, but he had felt marginally uncomfortable so he had moved away. Now he found he hated the distance between them, but didn't know how to close it. She was withdrawn and the silence between them was thick; Simon did what he did best and ignored the elephant in the room, turning his attention to Dungeons and Dragons.

In fact, Simon thought Isabelle was a little too withdrawn. Her brown eyes were glassy, unfocussed, and she was wringing her hands subconsciously, the tail of her leather bracelet twisted in her fingers. Simon opened his mouth to speak, and closed it. He tried again, clearing his throat awkwardly.

"Are you okay?" He asked her hesitantly, pushing his glasses up his nose. Her brown eyes flickered to him and she smiled, but Simon thought it was the smile of someone who hid their sadness, of someone who feigned happiness when there wasn't a shred of joy within them.

"Yes." Isabelle said, her voice quiet. Simon swallowed, unsure how to proceed. He knew she wasn't; a fool could see the film of tears she blinked from her eyes, hear her shaky breaths.

"Um…Iz…" Simon bit his lip. "Are you still thinking about the girl?"

"No." Isabelle said, almost a little too quickly. He knew she was lying. "No, I'm not thinking about her. I mean, why would I? She took some drugs and next thing you know she's dead, and blood streams from her eyes, mouth and nose. I've had nightmares…" she broke off, shook her head and murmured, "I'm not thinking about her at all."

Simon cringed, hearing the rise of panic in her voice. "She killed herself, Isabelle."

She shook her head, her eyes hardening with resolve. "No. _Someone killed her. _That wasn't suicide; that was murder."

He didn't know what to say to that. So he did what he knew to do: he pressed 'new game' on Dungeons and Dragons. He could feel Isabelle's eyes on him as he played, feel her gaze scrutinizing him. He didn't understand her. Simon was usually perceptive when it came to understanding other people; he was observant, and people had a habit of overlooking him. He was good at learning what others thought or felt. But with Isabelle, it was different. He had no clue what she was thinking and even less of an idea as to how to ask.

"You're going to lose the treasure again," she said after a while, watching him intently. "You keep taking the left tunnel-"

"The left tunnel leads to the prison cell." Simon felt compelled to point out. He tried to conceal the patronizing edge of his tone to no avail; she didn't _understand_ this game. "That's where the treasure is kept."

"The middle tunnel will lead to the prison as well." Isabelle said, pointing to the path in question. Simon was momentarily distracted by the shape of her mouth, darkened with red lipstick, plump and soft. He averted his eyes, blinking rapidly. "You see? They're the points of a fork. I don't know if the producers meant to make it that way – seems unlikely. Go down that tunnel and you won't lose your treasure."

Simon didn't want to do it, didn't want to lose another game. He didn't trust her judgment. She was just a girl, albeit an incredible, different girl, but still. Nonetheless, he took the tunnel. "Fine. I'll go down it just to prove to you that it _doesn't_ lead to the prison cell."

She shrugged and got up, dropping the cushion back down on the couch. She strode over to the window and Simon took the opportunity to admire her in stolen glances. She walked with a refined grace, an inhuman elegance. Her long dark hair spilled over her shoulders, unbound, and the light that streamed from the window glimmered against it. Simon tried not to look at her legs. She was wearing shorts, cut off just above her knees, and her skin was flawlessly ivory, pale but not pasty, and toned. He found his gaze lingering at embarrassing, distracting places, like the curve of her ass, the flash of unblemished skin at her stomach beneath her cropped top, the swell of her breasts as she turned away from him. Several dark spirals wound up her arm – the leather bracelet, Simon thought. She always wore it. The line of her jaw was sharpened by the bright backdrop of the city, but it didn't make her appear less beautiful. On the contrary, she was like a fairy, darkened by other sinful forces.

She drew a curtain aside daintily and stared out of the window, not speaking a word.

Simon heard the ring of an alarm and realized he was running out of time on his game. He quickly scrambled down the tunnel and was shocked to see that Isabelle was right – it led to the prison.

"What?" Simon shook his head, astounded. "That doesn't make any sense."

"Hmm?" Isabelle muttered, leaning out of the window, her eyes on the street.

"Well," he wasn't really talking to her. He wasn't paying her any attention. He was staring from the screen to the game case, completely stupefied. "That shouldn't happen. The configuration of the map states that it's totally impossible for the middle tunnel to lead to the prison. See? The programming shows that it should lead to throne room. How is it possible for it to go to the prison? The coding…" he scrambled for his controller, bringing up the coding control box. He scanned through the code, reading it expertly. He didn't notice Isabelle as she watched him in the reflection of the window. He had almost forgotten she was there. He growled and stood, striding over to his bookshelf to withdraw 'Game Programming; Dungeons and Dragons' from the line of computer theory texts and coding manuals. He flung the controller to the couch and flicked open the book, looking from the pages to the screen with renewed confusion. "The coding is all correct. This shows that any given character should be delivered to the throne room if they go down the middle tunnel. It's not making any _sense!"_

"There's always a glitch in the game, Simon." Isabelle murmured, her fingers barely brushing the glass absently. He looked at her, wet his lips, pushed his glasses back up his nose, and glared at the book before him. He leant against the back of the couch, his hip pressed against the tatty leather as he studied the computer language on the screen and compared it to that of the book.

"But…there shouldn't be. I don't understand-" He read through the coding on the screen and pushed his glasses up his nose. "If character A selects tunnel B then result equals location C. Location C is the throne room…how could it be the prison?"

He heard a small sound of frustration and then Isabelle was behind him, pressing herself against him. His eyes widened. He could feel the bulge of her chest against his back.

"Have you had many women?" Isabelle whispered, her lips brushing his ear. She'd walked from the window to behind him, and her breath warmed his neck, her body pressed against his spine to keep him from moving away. He could feel her hands placed gently at his shoulders, controlling, dominating.

Simon froze, his mouth drying, his eyes dropping to the book in his arms though he could read none of the words on the page. He could feel Isabelle's lips against his ear, feel her fingers pressing into the hollows of his shoulders above his neck. "Uh…" he breathed, his throat constricting. He tried again. "What?"

"Have you _had_ many women?" Isabelle asked, her hands moving smoothly, skimming across his arms. He felt goosebumps rise and was grateful for his long sleeves. He was wearing a thin shirt, and he could feel the heat of the bared flesh at Isabelle's stomach searing his skin at the small of his back. "I've noticed something about you, Simon. You ramble. Not all the time. Only when you're frustrated or confused or…" Her lips brushed the skin of his neck. He was still frozen, motionless by her foreign touch. "_Nervous_."

"Uh, well, it's a habit…um…" he cleared his throat. "I don't know what you…uh…mean."

He felt Isabelle smile against his throat. Her scent was overpowering, intoxicating. Dark and seductive, rich and promising. He didn't know what to say or how to react, but he was becoming increasingly more embarrassed by his ineptness, by his uncertainty.

"Do I make you nervous?" She asked, her voice low and sultry.

"No." He croaked, but the breaking of his voice gave him away.

"You lie." She breathed, her tone like silk over needles. "If you weren't nervous, if you weren't completely overwhelmed by my presence, you would have spotted the coding error."

"What coding error?" Simon's eyes flicked back up to the screen, reading the code over and over again. She was right; it was no use. He couldn't concentrate through his muggy thoughts. He could hear Isabelle's provocative laugh, feel her heated touch, smell her enthralling scent. He didn't know how this had happened. One minute ago, she'd been overpowered by her own nightmares, her own terrors. Now _he_ was overcome by _her_.

She sucked in a sharp breath. "You're so attractive when you do that."

"Do what?" He was aware that he was speaking in short, clipped sentences, but he was worried that if he spoke much more, his words would become a meaningless babble of ill-pronounced vocabulary.

"Ramble." Her finger trailed down his throat, resting at the collar of his shirt. Simon's pulse sped. He was hyperaware of her. Every movement she made, he responded. His nerves were alight, his vision clouded, his thoughts irrational. "_What's the coding error, Simon?"_ She sang and he felt a tremble run down his spine at her playful, melodic voice. "You don't really want me to tell you. You want to find it for yourself."

He wanted that more than anything. He wanted to prove to her that he could find the error. His gaze scanned the screen again, over and over. It was all in place. He didn't understand; he had spent four years of his life learning to read code, to identify problems. It was something he was passionate about. Moreover, he couldn't understand why Isabelle had identified the error before him. He didn't know much about her, but he couldn't imagine her being interested in computer language.

"Give up?" She whispered and Simon tensed as her hand lifted from his shoulder to rest at his thigh. He felt a dark shift of weight in his abdomen. He gritted his teeth, and lowered his book to hide his growing erection. "Do you want me to tell you?"

He couldn't handle it anymore. He knew that if he continued to fight her, she'd seduce him further. He wanted her to step away from him, to stop this tantalizing torture.

That's what he told himself, but his body told otherwise. Somewhere, his brain told him that Isabelle's touch was good, that it felt amazing. He was so distracted by her crimson lips, the sizzle of her touch, the seductive tone of her voice that he knew he'd never find the coding error. Not while she was still here.

Isabelle saw the defeat in his eyes because she smiled and leaned in. Her lips pressed against his cheek, sticky and hot. He knew an imprint of her lipstick would remain on his pale cheek. He couldn't breathe for a moment, couldn't concentrate through the haze of Isabelle.

"Line 54." She breathed, her words slow. "Undefined variable. Is Location C really Location H?" She straightened, walked over to the hooks by the front door and picked up her bag. She turned back as if she was going to say something else. Simon was frozen, staring at line 54 on the code. The error, now she'd mentioned it, was as clear as day, obvious. He couldn't move, was overcome by shock and the aftereffects of Isabelle. He saw, in his peripheral vision, her smirk and leave, shutting the door behind her. Simon was frozen, overcome with desire and longing and…fear. Fear of the unknown. This was unfamiliar territory – Isabelle's seduction. And he was scared. Isabelle's tinkled laugh teased him as it echoed down the hallway outside his flat and would linger in his thoughts for days to come.

* * *

Jocelyn sat at her office desk, comparing the two bank statements with a frown on her face. The room was much like her personality. Hard and unforgiving, cold in color, with dashes of warmth in the disguise of her artwork. A single desk stood in the center, papers and pens coating it, a laptop flashing at her, and a strictly confidential file lay open before her.

She sat there, lost in thought, her pen trailing slow circles around the name at the top right of the statement. V Morgenstern.

"What are you doing, spider?" She murmured, comparing the two statements worriedly. It wasn't that Valentine Morgenstern had forced another business into buying from him, thus making them bankrupt. It was that _he hadn't._ He'd broken his pattern and that worried Jocelyn more than his usual deceitful antics did. What's more, Jocelyn had done some statistical analysis, and found that Valentine's business was still declining, despite the usual steady incomes. Valentine wasn't earning any profit, and Jocelyn knew that soon he'd grow frustrated by his misfortune and lash out.

There was a knock at the door. Jocelyn moved some irrelevant papers over the statements and cleared her throat. "Come in."

The door opened and Luke strolled in. He was wearing a dark tight-fitting top and loose grey tracksuits, splattered with spirit and white paint. He smelled like ethanol, like varnish, but like pine also. It was a scent she had come to know in the week he had spent in her home, redesigning the studio.

They'd spoken often in the past few days. Sometimes, Luke would be on a break, and he'd venture into the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. Jocelyn would watch him from the dining room, her paintbrush poised uselessly as she grew more and more distracted by him. He seemed so joyful, all the time. So kind and happy and carefree. Jocelyn found herself drawn unnaturally, in the same unnatural way a tiger might feel drawn to a rabbit. She found herself fascinated by him, by his softness, by the lack of hostility within him.

That had been the first problem. Her fascination by Luke Garroway. It had led to her thoughts lingering on him more so recently than she'd ever thought of a man before – except Valentine, of course. She'd found herself leaning against the doorway of the studio, watching him work, or finding excuses to talk to him: 'I've changed my mind: I'd rather the light streamed through this window as I'll have my main easel there.' He didn't seem to mind – in fact, he had endorsed her ridiculous whims with nothing but an understanding, kind smile. It had become a challenge for Jocelyn now, to try and frustrate him as much as possible. She wanted a reaction out of him. Something that wasn't kind and happy and understanding and sincere. She wanted Luke to show some passion, anger. Something strong.

"Jocelyn." Luke nodded now, leaning against the wall nonchalantly, a pen lid between his lips. There was a dirt smudge under his eye, and he was specked with sawdust.

"Is there a problem, Luke?" Jocelyn eyed him shrewdly. "Could you please not lean on my wall?"

He lifted his weight with not even a blink of an eye. "Problem?" He smiled, flashing white teeth. "No problem."

Jocelyn nodded, disappointed by his reaction, and turned her attention to her computer, reading her emails and typing replies. After two minutes, she noticed he was still stood there, so she sighed.

"Can I help you?" She asked, and her voice was colder than she liked. She softened her words with a slight smile. She wanted a reaction, but she didn't want to hurt him. "You said there was no problem…"

"No," he agreed. "Actually, I was wondering if you were free tonight-"

There was another knock at the door, interrupting Luke's words. Jocelyn recognized the familiarity of this knock, and let her daughter in.

"Clary," she said calmly, as the flame-haired girl entered the room. "This is Luke; he's been redecorating the studio."

Clary nodded and held out her hand. Luke shook it, a kind shine in his eyes. "It's nice to finally meet you," he said, "I've heard a lot about you from Jocelyn."

Jocelyn frowned. She hadn't actually spoken much of Clary, but then she supposed Luke must have picked up a lot about her based on their home. That's what he had said, wasn't it? That you could tell a lot about a person by what lay around their home?

"Did you hear?" Clary breathed, turning her green eyes to her mother. Jocelyn could see the drive in her daughter's gaze, the same drive and determination that she knew she had inherited from her. It scared Jocelyn, actually, to see that much strength in her daughter. It made her wonder just how far Clary would go to get what she wanted.

"Hear what?"

"About the deaths."

Jocelyn lifted the newspaper and showed it to Clary. The headline read: **Police are baffled by seventh Heavenly Fire death – urgently seeking answers.**

"It seems," Jocelyn said, her tone firm, "that the recent victims are regular goers to Seduce Nightclub." She said the name with a distasteful curl of her upper lip. "I don't want you hanging around with them, Clary. I don't want you in any sort of trouble. Do you understand?"

Her daughter shifted and looked away. "I understand, Mom. I've never heard of the place, anyway."

Appeased, Jocelyn sat back as Luke spoke. "I can't imagine the Lightwoods are the ones behind the drugs. Alec and Isabelle are good kids."

Jocelyn shrugged. "I'm just seeing the facts, Luke."

Luke rubbed his jaw, lost in thought. Jocelyn tore her gaze from his pale blue eyes and back to Clary.

"Where are you going?"

"Oh," she pointed to her bag. "I have work."

"Great," Jocelyn smiled. "Come home as soon as your shift finishes – I don't want you loitering around the streets all night-"

"Valentine Morgenstern."

Shocked by the mention of the familiar name, Jocelyn turned to Luke. "What about him?"

Luke pointed at her desk. "The name. Valentine Morgenstern. There."

Jocelyn swallowed her apprehension. In moving the newspaper, she'd dislodged the papers covering the bank statements, revealing Valentine's name. She quickly shuffled the papers back over the bills and looked up, her expression like ice.

Clary took that moment to say goodbye to her mother and Luke, much to Jocelyn's relief. When her daughter had closed the door firmly behind her, Jocelyn spoke, her voice hard.

"What about him?"

"He's a dangerous man, Valentine," Luke said, after a pause. "You don't want to associate yourself with him."

"I'm quite aware of how dangerous Valentine Morgenstern is, Lucian." Jocelyn replied coldly. _Too aware,_ she thought. She had been married to him after all.

Luke only held up his hands. "The Morgensterns hurt people, Jocelyn," he said calmly. "Valentine's son is just as faulted."

"What do you know about Jonathan?" Jocelyn asked, a lump in her throat. She tried not to let the distress show on her face and must have succeeded as Luke didn't call her out on it.

"He's…worse than his father in some respects." Luke shrugged, unaffected, though his blue eyes were clouded over by some undecipherable emotion. "Valentine is cruel and dangerous, but he is a man of his word. He is honest. If he says he will do something, he will do it."

"And Jonathan…"

"Jonathan is cruel and dangerous also," Luke conceded, "but he will lie and twist truths. He'll be the man who thrusts a knife in your back when you turn away from him. He's relentless. Nasty piece of work."

Jocelyn wet her lips and tried to swallow the rising bile in her throat. "Thank you, Luke," she said, and her voice was smaller than she would have liked. "You can go now."

"But I was going to ask you-"

"Please," she closed her eyes, "leave."

Luke blinked but otherwise didn't react. He shrugged his shoulders and walked to the door. Just before he crossed the threshold, he looked back, his pale blue eyes torn. "If you cared to give some thought as to why you suffer with personal relationships or friendships, you'd find that it's because you're much better at pushing people away than you are at accepting them." He shrugged again, his tone simple. "I guess it's the easier option for you. But sometimes, Jocelyn, easier isn't better."

The door clicked shut behind his retreating form. Jocelyn sat there, absorbing his words, surprised by how each and every one of them stabbed at her heart.

"Argh!" She yelled, frustrated, and she launched her paperweight at the door. It shattered and fell to the ground, purple shards littering the cream carpet. She put her head in her hands, her blurred vision swimming over Valentine Morgenstern's name.

He was a curse on her. Whenever she thought she'd ridden herself of him, he struck her, even in the most unlikely of ways.

* * *

Jace knocked back another shot, roaring with laughter at a joke Jonathan told. They sat at the bar of one the local clubs. Not Seduce – some meaningless place. They were both hooded, their recognizable, characteristic hair hidden from public eyes. Jace could feel it sizzling in his blood, the need to _do something_. He knew Jonathan could feel it too. The boys were restless; they had been good for far too long. Jace wanted fun. He wanted to be entertained.

"I'm bored." Jace gasped, the burn of the alcohol making him wince. His head was clouded with drunkenness, but he could still see straight, which was always a good indication of his level of intoxication.

"Pity, brother." Jonathan said, his voice hard, touched only by a shred of amusement. "We can't have that."

Jace opened his eyes to regard him. Even under the hood, Jace could see the ice in Jonathan's black eyes, ice that Jace had become accustomed to. "What are we to do?"

Jonathan leaned back and shrugged. "I was playing around with the idea of stealing a few girlfriends." He nodded over to the cluster of bikers who leaned by the back door, playing darts and shouting rowdily. Their girls hung over them and Jace couldn't help but admire the beauty of some of them. What it'd be like to have some of _them_ gasping and moaning beneath him.

"You always pick the bigger dudes." Jace shook his head.

Jonathan shrugged, and Jace saw the flash of a smile beneath his hood. "No fun otherwise. You game?"

Jace hesitated. He wanted to do something fun with Jonathan, something that would keep him from this perpetual state of boredom. He wanted to cause chaos, a tribute to their old times. They hadn't done anything remotely interesting in so long. Jace was beginning to wonder if there was any measure of appeal left in Jonathan, after all.

But just as Jace was about to agree, an image flashed in his mind. A girl. Red hair, small frame, fast-mouthed. He thought back to touching her in the restroom, recalled the little way she gasped when he kissed her, and then he remembered how turned on he'd been when he'd danced with her the other night, how deeply stirred he felt when she pressed her body against his. He didn't want to fuck any girl. He wanted to fuck _her_.

But Jonathan would call him out as a coward if he refused. He had to do something better, distract Jonathan from this idea. So, he got up and prodded the shoulder of the man next to him.

"What do you want?" The man snarled, peering at him suspiciously. Jace suspected he was worried because he couldn't see underneath Jace's hood. The fear of not knowing the person beneath the mask is almost immobilizing, if it becomes too strong.

"Your drink."

He swiped the beer and knocked it back. The man stood, outraged, but Jonathan stepped in the way, chuckling deeply.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." He said coldly, mirth still lining his tone. Jace took the opportunity to throw the glass to the ground, shattering it. The bartender shouted, "Oi!"

The boys laughed as Jace vaulted the stool and jumped on the bar, crouching low. The bartender was cursing now, and threatening the two of them loudly. Jonathan laughed at his pathetic attempts, and shouted some harsh insults to the bikers, who had turned their attention to them.

"Nice chick," Jonathan called over to them. "I'll fuck her until the sun comes up. Bet she wouldn't mind it, either. A cactus would be better at sex than what she's clearly used to."

Jace laughed as the biker, evidently the girl's boyfriend, flushed angrily and stepped forward. Jonathan cackled as Jace began to walk the length of the bar, kicking the glasses to the floor. The sound of shattering glass and angry men set Jace's blood on fire. Finally, they were having a little bit of fun. The bartender tried to push Jace off the bar, but Jace adeptly avoided the man. This time two weeks ago, Jace would have happily shoved the man back. But he didn't want to. He didn't want to cause any unnecessary violence – even he had limits.

Jonathan, apparently, didn't. He sauntered up to the biker and grabbed at his girl, pulling her flush against him. The girl struggled in his grip and slapped him but he only laughed and pulled her tighter. Jace saw his hand snake out and touch the girl's breast and the biker lunged at him.

Jace kicked the last glass from the bar and cursed, "Shit," he said, as he jumped from the bar and ran to help Jonathan, who was now dodging the biker's blows with an ease that Jace had always admired. Jace could see under the hood that Jonathan was smirking, confident, cold and cruel.

"Missionary?" Jonathan laughed, but there was no warmth in the sound. "Or maybe even doggy? Perhaps I'll tie her up." The biker was growing angrier with each miss and spat back threats that even to Jace, sounded a little daunting.

Jonathan didn't seem to mind. "I'll leave my mark on her," he promised solemnly, ducking to miss another punch. "You'll know I've been there. You'll see the remnants of our hot sex on her body for _weeks_ afterwards."

"I'll fucking kill you!" The biker snarled. Jace thought he was trying to peer under Jonathan's hood to see his face.

"Too easy." Jonathan smirked. "It's too easy to have fun with you lot. You're all so _territorial_." He spat the last word. "Share and share alike in my books. I've shared half my girls with my good friend here."

Jace swallowed and looked around frantically. He didn't know what to do to get Jonathan to stop fighting, but he was sure that it wouldn't be long before he snapped and then they'd both be in trouble they didn't need. At that moment, the biker pounced and Jace heard Jonathan hiss painfully. Upon closer inspection, Jace saw the biker had stabbed a dart into Jonathan's arm. Jonathan gritted his teeth and yanked the dart out. He couldn't see any blood but then Jace thought the wound would be too small, his clothes too black to see it.

"Maybe I'll slap her," Jonathan mused, his tone unchanged, sidestepping the biker as he lurched at him again. "Slap her pussy? Or her ass – she's got a fine ass. I'll slap her like _this_."

His hand whipped out and cracked against the biker's face, the dart in his hand raking through the man's skin, drawing blood and scarring the biker's skin. The sound was like a gunshot in the bar, and the initiator of the riot that resulted. The other bikers lunged at Jonathan and Jace and the two boys backed away, laughing, dancing out of their reach. Jace couldn't deny the adrenaline that pumped through his veins, the exhilaration that propelled him. He swerved and ducked out of another man's grasp, and distinctly, he could hear the barman shout, "Get out of my bar!"

"Gladly, good sir!" Jace called back with a grin and Jonathan snickered approvingly. "Wouldn't want to cause any trouble, sir."

The two boys turned and ran, knocking over tables and chairs on their way. They spilled out of the bar, hearing the bikers pursue them. "Where?" Jace gasped, a grin still etched on his face.

"This way!" Jonathan called, grabbed his friend's wrist, and then sprinted down the nearest alleyway. They ran for what would be their lives, for they both knew theirs were at stake if they let the bikers catch them. They dashed down every corner, until a spark of an idea ignited in Jace's mind.

"Seduce!" He gasped and Jonathan huffed.

"What?"

"Get to Seduce." He repeated, and a renewed energy fizzled through him, forcing his legs to move faster. They could hear the shouts and calls of the bikers, and even what sounded suspiciously like a gunshot, though in this city, you could never know. They ran as quickly as they could force their bodies, until the two of them spilled out onto a main street. Seduce Nightclub stood before them, and they didn't hesitate to climb the steps and throw themselves at the door. It was lucky that Jace had his ID card, and he swiped it quickly at the entrance. They pushed the door together and stumbled inside. The club wasn't open tonight – it was a Sunday – and lights brightened the place.

"What the fuck?"

Jace looked up and saw Isabelle, standing on the stage, hip popped against the pole. She eyed the two of them suspiciously.

"Where have you been?" She asked, her lips pursed. Jonathan chuckled and Jace's laugh was not one of mischief, but of relief. They'd gotten away. He ran a hand through his golden hair; his hood had fallen when they fled.

"You'll be our alibi." Jonathan muttered, sober now, as he pulled his hood from his face. Jace quirked an eyebrow, surprised at how quickly his friend had caught onto his plan. "If the Police come, or the bikers, we work here. We've never been anywhere else."

"Why would I help you?"

"Because you need us." Jonathan responded sharply. "Remember?"

"It's a mutual need." Isabelle reminded. "Simon's not going to lose his virginity on his own."

Jonathan surveyed Isabelle carefully. "Well, I can see you haven't gotten very far with _that_," he said, "so consider this a favor we require that repays your delay. You've taken an awfully long time to even make headway with your side of the deal; consider this your apology to us."

Isabelle snorted, disgusted. "Shower's that way." She pointed to a dark door, half open. Jace remembered it was always shut when the club was open for business; it must be the Lightwood's private quarters when they weren't staying at home.

Jace followed Jonathan, intending to ask about his dart wound, but froze when someone stepped in his track.

"You're not seriously considering showering with him, are you?" Clary asked, eyeing him disdainfully, her green eyes piecing him. Jace felt his heart contract and he looked at her defiantly, noticing the small parts of her. Her red hair, the speckles of hazel in her green eyes, the freckles on her nose. He noticed her clothes – not suited for work; she wore a summery dress, forest green and gold. His throat contracted. So she wasn't dancing today. His thought was proven by her cleaning apron, wrapped tightly around her waist. "Because that brings a whole new level of 'gay best friend.'"

He opened his mouth to respond, but she turned around and walked away. He looked back to the stage, but Isabelle was gone. The club was empty. Growling frustratedly, he followed Clary.

She ducked under a doorway and a small set of stairs. He watched her unlock the cleaning cupboard and followed her as she walked inside. He shut the door behind them.

She flicked on the light and gave a small gasp, her eyes widening. When she realized who it was, she relaxed, but her gaze remained guarded and Jace couldn't help but notice her lips parting as she looked at him.

"What are you doing?"

He picked up a cloth. "Helping," he said, lightly. He was aware of how close they were, standing in this small cleaning cupboard under the dingy single light bulb that flickered slightly above. Distantly, he could hear the wail of sirens as Police cars raced the streets. He couldn't help the grin that spread across his face.

Clary caught it and she frowned. "What have you done?"

"Nothing," Jace shrugged, adopting an innocent expression. "I've been here all night. With you."

"No, you haven't, and we both know it." Clary said, rolling her eyes. He took the opportunity to step closer to her, and watched the emotions play out on her face. Anger, distrust, desire, longing. They weren't too dissimilar from what he felt himself.

"You'd say I was, wouldn't you? If the Police turned up at the door."

Clary swallowed and looked away. "What have you done?" She repeated.

"Just caused a riot in a bar not too far from here." Jace said, nonchalantly. "Jonathan was the idiot – starting a fight with a biker. That's why I'm sweating you know. We had to run for our _lives_." His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, his smirk growing, and he watched as Clary swallowed nervously. Did he have the same effect on her as she had on him?

Clary didn't say anything, but her fingers twitched. Jace's smile widened and he leaned closer, drinking her scent in, floral and clean. "You wouldn't help me?" He whispered and she sighed.

"You're an asshole."

"Hmmm…" He touched her forehead, his eyes on hers. He could see the frantic turmoil in her gaze, hear her sharp intake of breath. His hand trailed up her arm, barely brushing her skin and he felt her shiver against him. He dipped his head and their lips brushed just barely. He pulled back slightly and heard her disappointed exhale. He made a noise of amusement.

"You can't resist me," he said casually. "No matter what you say, you'll always remember that night in the restroom." His fingers curled experimentally in her hair at the back of her neck, and he tipped her head back gently, just like he did that night. She was quiet, watching him carefully, her gaze like fire. He could feel the stirring of an arousal deep in his abdomen. He'd never met a girl who could turn him on with just one look. Her eyes were bright with intensity as she stared up at him. He dipped his head closer to her, his voice low. "You'll always remember the feel of my touch, the taste of my lips, the pain of my hands in your hair. I know you what you like, Clary."

Her lips parted. "And what, exactly, is that?" She breathed, her words unsteady. Her lips brushed his, scarcely. He could just feel the zing of electricity pass between them, the ever-coaxing desire that ignited the both of them.

He couldn't hold back anymore. His lips crashed against hers and she gasped, her arms lifting to his neck to pull him closer to her. He could feel her body flush against his, feel the small curve of her breasts against his chest, the flutter of her skirt against his hand as he pulled her closer, cupping her ass, his other hand knotted in her hair as he kissed her passionately. She tasted sweet but not overpoweringly so, and he remembered the zeal they shared in the restroom, the same zeal they shared now as they pulled at each other, yearning to be closer than they were. Jace's tongue pressed against her lips and her mouth opened, letting him in. He could feel her hands roaming his chest, clenching his shirt, as he explored her mouth, savoring her taste. He pushed against her lightly, pinning her against the cleaning room door. His hands pressed against the frame either side of her head as she clung to him, and their kissing was only broken by the opening of the door.

They fell out of the cupboard and Jace's arm shot out to steady Clary. He flattened his shirt with his other hand and glared at Isabelle.

"Can't you two keep your hands off each other for five freaking minutes?" She asked, hand on her hip, her gaze disgusted. "Just fuck each other already and I won't have to deal with this pent up sexual frustration that oozes from the both of you."

Jace opened his mouth to bite back, but was silenced by Clary, who grinned at him wryly over Isabelle's shoulder. It wasn't the smile of someone who regretted their actions, wasn't the smile of someone who was angry with him. It was the smile of someone who wished they hadn't been caught.

Perhaps he could have some fun with Clary, after all.

* * *

**Don't forget to review! Theories, character insights etc. What do you think will happen? Let me know!**


	7. Craving of the Foreign

**This is a very long chapter. Like…a thousand words longer than the average. It's my favorite, so far, though. Enjoy and don't forget to review!**

* * *

Clary stared at the work on her easel and sighed. She could feel Jace watching her, feel his eyes roam her skin. She was uncomfortable, but not in the same way she was when Jonathan watched her. Instead, she felt as though Jace was studying every inch of her, committing her to memory. It was distracting; she couldn't concentrate on her assignment.

Eventually, she turned to face him. "What?"

"Are you working today?"

She shrugged. "I think so. Isabelle said she's teaching me something new, tonight."

He arched a golden eyebrow. "Oh, is she?"

Clary could hear the double meaning in his voice and she grimaced. "What do you know that I don't?"

Jace simply smirked and looked away. She took the opportunity to survey him, letting her gaze drift over the hard tension in his shoulders, the lean muscle of his back – barely veiled by a thin, black t-shirt. She noticed the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck slightly, brushing the line of his collar – golden against black. His cheekbones, set high upon his face, made him seem ethereal to Clary. He was like an angel – perhaps, fallen.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I'm not looking at you like anything." She turned back to her easel, feeling a flush rise in her cheeks.

Jace chuckled knowingly. "Round three on your mind, redhead?"

Her blush deepened to a slow, dark red. "No," she snapped, but even she could hear the note of falsity in her tone.

"Round two was fun," he murmured, his voice dark. Chills broke out over her skin and she tried not to tremble under his ever-seeing, liquid golden stare. "I'm _always_ up for some fun, Clary."

"Your definition of 'fun' is very different to mine." She felt a twinge of pleasure shoot to her groin at his words and tried to ignore it. "I wouldn't say attacking a biker in a local bar is fun."

Jace grimaced. "Jonathan always gets a little carried away," he said. He shrugged casually. "He learned his lesson – he took a dart to the arm. Tiny, nasty wound, really. Quite deep, too. It'll take a while to heal. He wouldn't stop complaining when I tended to him – annoying, to be honest."

Clary bit her lip. "Why do you care so much?"

"Hmmm?" Unfocused, he blinked. "What?"

"Why do you care so much about a man whom seems to enjoy hurting others?"

Jace seemed to think for a while. "He doesn't hurt others intentionally."

"Right." She rolled her eyes, unconvinced. Jace saw the disbelief upon her face and bristled slightly.

"He wasn't always like this." Jace protested. "He used to be…not good, but...moral. He used to have a sense of right and wrong."

Clary said nothing. She couldn't imagine a Jonathan who knew the difference between right and wrong. Jonathan Morgenstern was a law unto himself; _he_ decided what was right and wrong and mostly his ideas of the two never fitted with the norm.

"I'm friends with _that_ Jonathan." Jace said, his eyes narrowing. "He used to be good. He'd have never hurt anyone. He was just rebellious – something exciting, for me. I get bored easily, Clary, with ordinary crap." His voice lowered to a whisper. "I get _bored_."

She tried not to show how much his voice undid her. She gritted her teeth. "The Jonathan you're friends with now isn't the same Jonathan you were friends with then."

He tensed slightly and a muscle in his jaw flexed. Clary's lips parted as she watched him process her words. It seemed to take him a long time – as if no one had ever told him before. Were people really so afraid of the duo that they hid unwanted truths? Didn't Alec or Isabelle ever tell them to cut their recalcitrant behavior out?

He opened his mouth to respond and then closed it again. She watched him carefully. His eyes burned into her, an undecipherable emotion churning within his golden gaze. She felt a small smile twitch at her lips.

"You're speechless," she noted, picking up a crimson oil pastel, "because you know I'm right."

He ran a hand through his golden hair, tousling it. She still hadn't gotten anything down on her canvas; she was transfixed by him. Every time she looked at him, she remembered his lips on hers, his hands teasing her skin. She remembered the heat she felt around him, the burning flame they shared. She found herself aching for him, almost against her will. She'd given up on denying her attraction to him – but she really didn't want to be just another screw to him. Another conquest. So she'd reached this dilemma; resisting him, but not.

"Bullshit," he scoffed but Clary noticed the frown set between his eyes – he was angrier, frustrated by her words. She shrugged and set her oil pastel to the canvas.

The more she worked, the more questions developed in her mind. She quelled them impatiently; Jace wasn't in the mood to play her game, but still, they lingered. Eventually, she couldn't stand it anymore.

"Is it true that you share everything?" She burst out and then bit her lip, half-ashamed. "Like, _everything?"_

His eyes narrowed and she almost cringed under his defensive glare. She resisted the urge and instead kept her eyes steady on his. She wasn't going to back down; she wasn't going to seem weak. After a moment, the guardedness slipped from his eyes and he regained his thoughtful expression.

"Why not? Jonathan…" he took a deep breath, as though considering whether to tell her. "I owe him a lot. He…saved me. I give him everything I can but he deserves so much more."

Clary didn't know what to say – something about his words seemed off. She didn't like the dynamics of Jonathan and Jace's relationship. Jonathan seemed so possessive over all of his 'boys' – Jace, in particular – but the others didn't see it. They simply felt as though they all owed him something; loyalty, or whatever.

"Is there anything you _wouldn't_ do for Jonathan?"

She watched the emotions play out on his face. Thoughtfulness, loyalty, defiance, frustration. The scowl on his face deepened, his eyes hardening to stone. Clary was unafraid – she didn't find Jace as terrifying as everyone claimed – but she did feel a weight drop into her stomach. There was more to Jace Herondale than she'd originally anticipated. Something buried deep within him that he wasn't willing to share.

Eventually, he sighed, his head ducking slightly. "I don't know."

* * *

"Tequila on the rocks." Jace slid the beverage across the bar to the girl. She flexed her hand out to catch it and took a sip. Making a sound of something like pleasure, she leaned into him. Jace could smell the perfume on her skin – sharp and tangy. She pulled the hem of her top down and Jace raised an eyebrow. He knew what she was doing. She was tempting him, baring her skin for him to see.

Before, he would have been tempted. But he wasn't now. He kept his eyes firmly on the girl's hairline, unbothered and disinterested. She tried to engage him in conversation but he didn't take the bait. He kept checking the time, waiting for Clary's training shift to start. Isabelle had said that he'd be needed to help train her and Jace had to admit he was keyed up, not to mention intrigued. What would he be doing in Clary's lesson?

The girl sulked when he didn't show any enthusiasm for her attention and slid off the bar stool to try Jonathan, who served at the other end of the bar, flirting liberally and teasing mercilessly. Jace watched as he flipped a glass round his hand and slammed it on the bar, splashing alcohol from the bottle into it, spilling excess on the bar. Alec would _kill_ him for the wasted liquid.

Finally, after what felt like hours but was really only minutes, Isabelle emerged from the back, leaning against the wall of the bar, her hip jutted out. Jace stopped wiping his glass as soon as he saw her; for a moment, the sight of her captivated him. She was dressed in a tight-fitting playsuit, the straps barely covering her breasts. She bared her legs to him, creamy and toned. She wore stilettos that added over two inches to her height, making her almost as tall as him. Her black eyeliner framed her dark eyes and her lips – beautifully painted in her trademark red – were parted with wry amusement.

"Come on, boys," she called musically as she flagged down Kaelie and ordered her to take over Jonathan. Alec emerged to take Jace's spot, and he talked with the customers as easily as if he were talking to Magnus. Jace noticed there was a small crease between his eyes – he was worried about something, and the way his blue eyes flickered around the bar frequently proved that. Jace didn't bother to ask; he hardly cared.

Instead, he bumped Jonathan on the shoulder in greeting and the duo followed Isabelle. She led them through the throng of dancing crowd, slapping away the hands that reached out to grope her. Jace swallowed uneasily, unable to explain his discomfort. One thought resounded in his head. Would Clary receive the same unwanted attention Isabelle did? He didn't want to think about it; the jealous spike in his stomach told him that.

Isabelle headed to the stairs at the side of the room, lit partially by the spotlights from the stage below. Jace followed the light and watched as Aline flexed against the pole, fifteen feet in the air, her legs clinging elegantly to the metal. She wasn't as sexy as Isabelle, Jace thought, but she was goddamn close.

Neither of them came anywhere near Clary.

Anticipation wound his stomach into a tight knot. What would he do with Clary tonight? He wanted to touch her again – wanted that more than anything. He wanted to feel her pressed against him, hear her gasp in his ear, feel the quickened beat of her pulse beneath his fingertips. He was overcome by her.

He tore his gaze from Aline and cast a glimpse aside to Jonathan, who was watching him with a frown on his face. Jace raised a questioning eyebrow and smirked. Nodding to Aline, Jonathan mouthed, _"You want her?" _

Jace glanced at Isabelle to check she wasn't watching them. Turning back to Jonathan, Jace shook his head, his lip curling with disgust. No, he didn't want to fuck Aline Penhallow.

Jonathan smirked and leaned in to murmur, "Pity to think she may go to waste."

"She won't go to waste. I know you'll make sure of that."

Jonathan clapped him on the shoulder, grinning with mirth. "You know me too well, brother."

"I don't have all day, you know!" Isabelle snapped and the boys stopped their talk to rush up the stairs after her.

She led them to a room, set aside from the rest of the club, the door dressed in dark sashes of silk and velvet. Jace narrowed his eyebrows. This was a private room, reserved for those rich enough to hire out an escort or a stripper surreptitiously. Isabelle opened the door and gestured for them to go inside.

Jace gave her a questioning glance but strolled in, Jonathan in front of him. The first thing he noticed was the seductive lighting of the room; the furnishings were black or crimson. Black velvet draped the two chairs in the room, meshes of crimson slashing across the single pole in the room.

Draped casually against the pole was Clary.

Jace sucked in a sharp breath, unable to tear his eyes from her. She looked like her, but didn't. Her red hair fell in loose waves down her naked back. She wore a backless, black dress, short – cut to her mid-thighs. Her legs weren't bare – fishnet tights exposed the tantalizing flashes of her skin. A silver chain glimpsed against her throat and she wore heels and fingerless, silky black gloves. She was mouthwateringly attractive and Jace felt a hungry ache drive deep within him. What he wouldn't give to have her right here, right now.

Jonathan, apparently, felt the same way. He let out a low whistle, his black eyes drinking her in. "Clary, sweetheart," he purred, "when did you get hot?"

Clary dragged her gaze from him to Jonathan and Jace saw the flicker of confusion and fear flash in her green eyes. He frowned, wondering if he'd imagined it. He had no time to ponder on it, however, as Isabelle placed her hands over his shoulders and forced him into one of the seats. Jonathan stepped out of her reach and sat of his own accord, placing one ankle on his knee, his hands resting at the back of his head as he surveyed Clary. Jace didn't like the ravenous expression that passed over his friend's face.

Isabelle tutted Jonathan and pushed his foot off his leg, until he sat with his legs spread apart, leaning forward, looking up at her with something like respect and newfound appreciation. Jace hadn't seen him look like that in a long time. He supposed that was Isabelle, though. Always able to command respect from even the most unlikely people.

Jace sat beside Jonathan, finding his gaze drawn back to Clary again. She seemed more confident, lounging seductively against the pole. Her arms were crossed and she gazed at Jace with narrowed eyes, her smile challenging, daring. His lips twitched. This was going to be fun, indeed.

"Alright, boys." Isabelle said briskly, striding over to the pole. "This is for training purposes only; please don't get any ideas." She added wryly for the boys' sake.

"Why are we here, exactly?" Jace asked, his eyes never straying from Clary's. He could just imagine tearing the dress in two, pulling it from her body, revealing the unblemished skin beneath. His mouth dried up as powerful desire washed over him.

"I've spent the evening teaching Clary to seduce," said Isabelle proudly. "While you guys have been splashing the alcohol everywhere-" she eyed Jonathan disdainfully, "Clary has been learning to be enticing."

Jace understood, but Jonathan felt the need to say what he was thinking anyway.

"We're here to test what she's learnt." His tone was neutral, evaluating. His black eyes kept flicking between Clary and Isabelle, as though he wasn't sure which he wanted to devour with his eyes the most.

A tendril of trouble lanced through Jace. "She's not seducing us both at the same time, is she?" He curled his lip. "I don't take second helpings."

He felt Jonathan's stare burn holes through the side of his face as he looked to Isabelle for a response. He knew what he was thinking: _you don't mind sharing, usually._

True. But he didn't want to share _her_.

"No," Isabelle touched her lip with her little finger absentmindedly, her posture uncaring. "I will work with Jonathan – act as a guidance for Clary."

Jace started to relax – yet tense with excitement – until Isabelle spoke again.

"Tomorrow, Clary will work with Jonathan alone," she smiled at Jace's outraged expression. "You two are just a hairsbreadth from fucking each other anyway. Clary needs to seduce those that _aren't_ interested in her. That's harder – she'll do that after the easier part; you."

Jace gritted his teeth, his gaze sliding to Jonathan. Didn't Isabelle see? Jonathan _was_ interested in her! He'd never felt such resentment towards Jonathan before – it was dark and ugly, and difficult to suppress. His jaw tensed but he managed a constrained nod, hoping Jonathan didn't see the strain on his face.

Jonathan, of course, looked completely at ease, an arrogant smirk etched on his face.

"So," Jace said, changing the subject. He waved his hand to Clary dismissively, trying to hide how much he wanted this. "When do we start?"

Isabelle smirked. "This isn't just a test of Clary's lessons – but a test of your self-restraint."

"My…" Jace frowned. "My self-restraint?"

Isabelle leaned in, her lips brushing Jace's cheek lightly. Jace could see Isabelle's appeal. She was exquisite and her dark scent was empowering.

"Clary can touch you…_wherever_ she likes. Touch _her_ and she wins." Isabelle whispered. "You don't want to be a loser, right, Jace?"

Jonathan threw his head back and laughed, the sound rich and haughty as it reverberated off the walls, filling the room's stunned silence.

"I can't…touch her?" Jace gritted his teeth; Isabelle was right, of course. She read men so easily. To not touch Clary would be torture.

He met her green gaze now, watching as she messed with her dress distractedly. She hadn't said a word through this whole affair but when she felt his eyes on her, she looked up and a slow, challenging grin spread on her face, her eyes flashing competitively.

A dare. Either way, Jace would get what he wanted in the end. He always won. Well, against everyone except Jonathan, of course. "Okay, fine." He let out his breath. "I can do that."

Isabelle leant back and pointed a remote at the music station. "We'll see," she purred as she moved over to stand beside Clary – opposite Jonathan. "Same goes for you, Morgenstern. Touch me and you lose."

He simply huffed, the smirk still twisting his lips. His dark eyes flashed with a predatory leer and Jace felt a shred of pity for Isabelle. Sure, the girl was strong and held her own, but against Jonathan Morgenstern? She was in for a ride.

As if to echo his thoughts, Jonathan muttered, "Let's see if Simon Lewis is getting his money worth."

The music began and Jace's eyes fixed on Clary. She looked over to Isabelle first, for instruction, and in his peripheral vision, he saw Isabelle stride over to Jonathan, her steps purposeful and powerful. Jonathan gazed at her lazily as Isabelle laid a hand over his shoulder.

Jace swallowed and looked back to Clary. She didn't come over straight away. She simply stood there, lounging against the pole, her foot tapping daintily in time with the music. Her green eyes surveyed him, darker than usual, her stare sweeping down his body. Jace felt frustration rise within him. Couldn't she touch him yet?

He didn't take the bait; he wouldn't let her see how much he wanted her. He sucked in a sharp breath when she flexed against the pole, the curve of her spine bending at her neck as her legs gripped the pole and she made one full revolution. He could see her muscles flex as she moved and he noticed the shimmer of perspiration on her bare back, her naked arms, the nape of her neck – where her red curls stuck slightly. Beside him, Isabelle danced atop Jonathan but Jace paid them no attention. He was stuck in a world of him and Clary, and _she still wasn't approaching him._

He leant against the chair, lounging in what he hoped was a lazy posture, placing his hand on his thigh to hide the growing bulge of his pants from watching her dance. His frustration – and desire – intensified.

She flashed him a knowing smile. "Eager, are we?" She eyed his hand pointedly and he clenched his fingers into a fist. She laughed – the sound perceptive – and he tried to suppress his groan. _Please, _he wanted to say. _Come here. Touch me._

As if she heard his silent request, she walked slowly over to him, one leg in front of the other. Her hair shimmered under the dim lights, brightened against the black sashes of the room. She was like a flame in the darkness, the only thing he could see. He couldn't tear his gaze from her. He consumed every detail of her. From her pale, ivory skin, to the brightened splash of hair that spiraled over her elegant spine. He found his gaze lingering at odd places; the hollow in her throat, her tiny wrists, the freckle on her collarbone. He was noticing the small details of her, because there was so much he could learn to know.

His heart pumped faster as she neared and his stomach twisted with desire. He sat there, legs parted, waiting for her. He would _not_ touch her. It would kill him, but he wouldn't lose. Jace Herondale was a winner.

She stepped in the space between his knees – not touching him still. Closer up, his gaze was fixed to more obvious places; the swell of her breasts, the arc of her ass, the shape of her lips. Slowly, she knelt and he tried not to imagine other scenarios – pictures of Clary on her knees in front of him, the movement of her head as she thrust, the flicker of her eyes as she stared up at him.

The twinge of heated passion shot to his groin and he abandoned the thought hastily. He had to focus. He met her gaze as she smoothed her hands over his thighs, rubbing gently. Jace knew Clary wasn't as poised as Isabelle but this new-found confidence was hot. She shuffled slightly, and her breasts rubbed against his inner thighs. He couldn't make a sound – he was afraid he'd be incoherent. He was transfixed by the green of her eyes, by the knowing smirk on her face. He wanted to draw her closer, to kiss her, to knot his hand in her hair once more. But he didn't. He gritted his teeth and watched as she moved up his body, her fingers digging into the Vs of his hips. He jerked as her stomach brushed his erection – the heated friction igniting a flame of lust in his groin. She gave a low chuckle and at the sound, he sat back, against his screaming instincts, and adopted a bored expression. If she was going to play that game, then so was he.

She read the boredom on his face. Rather than feel disappointed, she seemed only more spirited. "Bored of the ordinary, huh, Jace?"

The sound of his name on her lips nearly undid him, but he swallowed and, using all his willpower, suppressed his arousal. "I get bored easily, redhead," he murmured, and his voice cracked slightly.

Her palm splayed over his chest, her other hand teasing underneath his shirt, brushing at the bared, hot skin of his stomach. _"You're not bored now,"_ she whispered, her mouth inches from his. The urge to crash his lips against hers burned within him. He could feel his erection throbbing, feel his rapid pulse hammering against his chest, hear the rush of blood in his ears. She draped her legs over his, until she was straddling him, her ass rubbing against his cock. It was almost too much. He groaned and Clary smiled, pleased.

"You want me," she purred as she picked up one of his hands. He watched her warily. He was all too aware of the rule – no touching allowed. "You can touch me. You want to, don't you? You. Can._ Touch. Me."_

She brought his hand close to her body and he pulled away from her. He wanted to touch her – God knew he did – but he wouldn't lose this. The ache to place his hands on her body was a feverish drive within him. He leaned forward, inhaling her scent, but was careful not to let his lips brush her skin. It was a game to him. He was done with feigning boredom. Now, he was going to seduce _her_.

Of course, it was a little difficult, since he was without the use of his hands.

Fortunately, she gave him all the ammunition he needed. She rolled against him and his breathing hitched as he glimpsed the blue flash of her panties as she rubbed his sensitive groin with her body.

"Fuck," he tipped his head back and she arched over him, her lips hovering over his as she rocked. "You're good at this, redhead."

"Yeah?" She breathed; he could almost taste her sweet breath. "You like this?"

"You know I do," he winked at her and watched as she bit her lip, flushing. "You know my preferences as well as I know yours."

"You _think_ you know mine," she corrected, like he knew she would.

"Oh, I _know_…" he whispered, his lips hovering under her ear. The feel of her body atop of him was intoxicating, the scent of her clouding his thoughts. "I could show you after this little game, if you want."

"What will you show me?"

Ah, this was fun. Clary thought she was teasing – she was – but he knew that his words had more of an effect on her than hers did on him.

"I could do many things to your pretty, little body, Clary." He murmured, his voice low with dark desire. "How do you feel about bondage? I've heard that can really…stimulate girls to orgasm."

She paused for a moment and he looked up at her, watching her digest his words. "You're under the impression that I want to fuck you."

He feigned a wince. "That's not very seductive, redhead. You're losing your touch."

She smiled a winning smile and leaned in, her head ducking until her soft lips pressed against his throat. His pulse jumped. "You'll have to prove to me that you're worth my time."

He liked the sound of that. "I haven't already?"

She leaned back and the new angle pushed her breasts up to his eye level. It took every ounce of willpower to shift his gaze to her face. He raised an eyebrow, confident, questioning.

"You think a little mess around here or there proves much?" She asked, running a hand through her red hair. "You're going to have to work a lot harder than that, Jace Herondale."

Oh, she was _good_.

His mouth dried up and he shifted his weight slightly, suppressing a groan as his erection pressed against the inside of her thigh. She glanced down slightly, flushed and placed her hands in the dips of his groin – more out of a means of balance than seduction. Still, the fire of her touch so close to his dick was almost more than he could handle. He wet his lips, trying to calm his racing heart.

A spark of mischief lit in her green eyes and her hands moved over the bulge of his pants, up and down his length. Even through the material, he could feel each and every shift of her fingers against his dick. Almost against his will, he tipped his head back and groaned.

He lifted his hands and then placed them beside him again – he hated that he couldn't touch her, goddammit. He wanted to feel her skin, touch the swell of her breasts, stroke the intimate skin of her inner thighs beneath her dress that was gathered at her hips.

"Perhaps I could show you, Herondale," she purred, "what it is to please another."

Oh, fuck. He wanted her. He wanted her naked, straddling him, her hands placed firmly on his chest as he thrust inside her. He wanted to fuck her hard and fast, hear her scream his name as she came for him, feel her tightness around him. He wanted her so fucking much.

"I'd _love_ to be the judge of that," he growled.

"I can promise you won't be bored."

He moaned, almost undone from her words, his hands lingering over her hips, not quite touching. Not yet. He knew he was going to lose this; he'd known it when she placed her hands on him. He'd known it when she offered to please him. When she teasingly murmured tempting nothings in his ear. This was Clary Fray; he'd been drawn to her since the day they met, attracted to her since he saw her enter the club that very first night.

"Promise," she whispered. "How'd you like to hear me cry out your name? _Jace…"_

He couldn't resist that. Couldn't resist the sound of his whispered name on her lips, soft and seductive, a hidden oath. He placed his hand on her hip and rocked against her, swift, hasty thrusts. He tilted his head up to her and her mouth met his roughly, her hair falling over the two of them, concealing their faces as they kissed. His other hand moved swiftly to tangle in her hair at the back of her head as he pressed her against him. He couldn't get enough of her. Clary was his weakness and he wanted more of her.

He could feel the heated churn of his abdomen as his muscles contracted and the twinge in his erection told him he was going to come if she carried on much more. He pushed against her hip, increasing the friction between them. He was almost unraveled by her.

"Fuck, Clary," he groaned and she smiled, kissed him once more and then slid from his legs. He stared after her, speechless, as she stood there and looked at him, a victorious smile on her face.

"I win," she said simply, her eyes flickering to the bulge of his pants. He felt his jaw drop slightly, shock coursing through him.

The sudden role reversal had his head spinning, the cloud of his arousal obscuring his thoughts and senses. A wall of frustration built within him; why did she go? He was _so close_...so close to the brink.

She seemed to know it, too. She bent forward and the curve of her ass before him sent another shiver of pleasure down his spine. He gritted his teeth and met her mocking, green gaze. How had this happened? How had their roles changed so that _she_ was the one teasing _him_ and not the other way around, as it had been before?

"I will take you," he told her, his voice a low snarl of pent up frustration and arousal. He didn't touch her – though he wanted to. He didn't want to give her that satisfaction. "I will take you and _fuck you_ until you scream my name, Clary Fray. You will be punished for this."

Her lips parted with surprise and her pupils dilated until the green of her eyes was just a thin rim around her black pupils. The desire on her face was evident and the coil in his stomach tightened. He'd never been so turned on before, never wanted a girl as much as he wanted her now.

She recovered quickly and smirked, trailing a finger down his cheek. She kissed him once on the lips – just a harsh peck – and turned away from him. Over her shoulder, she called, "We'll see."

Oh, they would indeed.

* * *

Alec flicked the switches of the stage lights, drowning Aline in darkness, as the clock struck two. The clubbers groaned, and he raised his voice, "Show's over, folks!"

He watched them carefully as they began to move to the doors. The drug was still on his mind, the worry of the supplier dealing here in Seduce teasing his consciousness. He wanted to catch the culprit himself before anything else happened. He didn't want any trouble to occur and jeopardize his business.

"Alexander, darling," someone said and he tensed, recognizing the voice. It played over his skin, raising goosebumps. He schooled his features into a blank mask and turned to see Magnus lounging against the door beside the bar, his arms crossed. His black, spiked hair was tipped in orange glitter now, and he wore dark leather, the material clinging to his lean figure.

"Magnus," Alec said and tried to hide the wariness of his tone. He didn't want Magnus to feel like he was mad at him, but Alec couldn't hide the stress he was feeling.

Luckily, Magnus seemed to understand what he was feeling. He strode over to him and placed his hands on Alec's biceps, his fingers squeezing reassuringly. Alec tipped his head back against Magnus's chest gratefully as he instructed stray customers to vacate the building. Magnus pressed his lips against the crown of Alec's head, murmuring reassuring words.

"You shouldn't stress, Alexander." Magnus told him after he'd directed another girl to the exit.

"Can you understand why I am?" Alec responded quietly. He felt Magnus exhale, his chest brushing his back.

"Of course," Magnus said, "but you should know the Police can't prosecute you if you're innocent."

"But I'm not, am I?" Alec tugged Magnus's hand and pulled him into the harsh light of the back rooms, away from the prying eyes of the customers. "Not in the eyes of the law. This is my firm and anyone dealing drugs on my grounds…it falls back to me. I'm responsible."

"Isabelle too."

Alec shook his head. "My name is on the covenant," he said, "I made sure of that. To protect her if anything like this happened."

Magnus touched Alec's cheek. "I wish I could take this stress away from you," he murmured softly, a note of sadness in his voice. "I wish I could help you. Take care of you."

"You are taking care of me." Alec wasn't very good at showing his emotions and the words felt thick in his throat. He kept his eyes fixed firmly on Magnus's chest. "I can't…I wouldn't be me without you, Magnus."

Magnus leaned in to brush Alec's lips with his. The kiss was soft and reassuring, a calming presence. Alec wrapped his arms around Magnus's torso, pulling him closer. They broke their kiss and Alec rested his head on his chest as Magnus traced gentle circles over Alec's spine. He trembled under his touch; he could hear the steady, comforting beat of Magnus's heart.

Eventually, Alec withdrew from Magnus and stepped back. "I have to clear the club. Check the staff are doing what they're supposed to be doing-"

He was interrupted by a shout of terror, followed by his name, called in the response of fear. _"Alec!"_

The two of them jolted and Alec lunged into the club, panic worming in his stomach. He didn't know what he was looking for. He could see Isabelle, Jonathan, Jace and Clary running down the stairs beside the stage. He didn't pay them any attention. The shout didn't belong to them but to Aline Penhallow.

He found her off to the side of the place, hidden in a small, secluded alcove of the club that tended to be covered in vomit after each shift. It wasn't now; instead, a boy's body lay there, still and pale. Alec took in the paleness of his skin and the flash of crimson as blood poured from his crevasses and dread seized him, clogging his thoughts and freezing him momentarily.

"Oh, God…no," he slurred, dazed as he crouched down to examine the situation. "Jesus…"

"Alec?" It was Isabelle, catching up with them. Behind her were the others, watching on, horrified.

Alec looked up to his sister. Her brown eyes were widened with distress. He wondered what she saw in him – alarm in his blue eyes, filmed with unshed, panicked tears? Or someone closed off from emotion, someone sculptured from stone? He knew he was Isabelle's guiding hand, someone she looked up to the most. Did she see the fear and alarm in him now and realize he wasn't what she thought? Or did she still see her big brother, looking after her as he always had?

Finally, she spoke, her gaze landing on the body as she clenched her hands in fists at her side. "Not again. Not to us. Do you realize how bad this looks?"

Beside him, Magnus let out a low breath. "This has gone too far."

Alec couldn't think. Isabelle's words rebounded in his mind. _Do you realize how bad this looks?_ He was all too aware. Distantly, he heard the sound of sirens. He looked up and saw Kaelie by the bar, a phone in her hand, tears rolling down her cheeks. She'd called the Police.

He wasn't happy about it, but he didn't really have any other option.

After his moment of hesitation, Alec snapped into action. "Isabelle, get some gloves from the cleaning closet. Magnus, get the mop – this'll have to be cleaned up once the Police take the body-"

"I don't think that's wise, Alexander," Magnus said, his voice quiet. "You'll be tampering with the scene of a crime."

_Scene of a crime. _He hadn't realized this was really a crime scene. It was just an accident, an unfortunate event to occur. Alec stood, anger fizzling, panic raging. "I don't really have much choice!" He hissed. "I can't let him bleed out on the club, for fuck's sake. Besides, the damage is done. I'm screwed anyway. The boy died here-"

"_Is_ he dead?"

Alec looked at Aline – who had spoken – and gritted his teeth. "Most likely. He consumed Heavenly Fire. The drug has _killed_ people before now, Aline. Don't you watch the news? Or do you live under a fucking rock?"

He knew he was being cruel and the streaks of panic and fear within him were showing as anger. He couldn't help it; he didn't know what to do.

Behind him, he heard Jace say something not to him, but to Clary. He didn't really pay much attention to the words.

"Alexander," Magnus touched his arm. Alec let him. He needed a shred of comfort and Magnus was the only person who could offer him that. "Let the Police come and figure it out."

Isabelle came back with some latex gloves and Alec pulled them on, his hands shaking. He knelt back down, dismissing Magnus's warning words, and pressed his gloved fingers against the boy's neck.

A sick feeling lurched within him. The panicked dread and terrorizing confusion tightened into a knot in the space between his lungs and stomach, settling uncomfortably. He swallowed and looked up at Magnus. Stress-induced tears stung at his eyes and he blinked them away. Lightwoods did not cry. The day Alec Lightwood cried would be the day the world fell apart.

"He's dead," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. He yanked his gloves off angrily and tossed them into the trash can. He felt strangely empty now, the pain of his terror concentrated at his ribs. He just stood there and stared into space, dazed by the unspeakable thoughts that scattered his mind.

The dead boy was just the beginning. The first straw of many that would fall and tear Alec's life apart, piece by piece.

* * *

At the sound of the scream, Isabelle ran out the door, leaving Jonathan sat there – confused. Jace watched the door slam and rushed to his feet. Something was wrong. Very wrong. He grabbed Clary's hand and yanked Jonathan from the chair before they all clambered out of the room after Isabelle.

They barreled down the stairs beside the stage, taking the steps two at a time. Clary stumbled once and Jace's arm whipped out to steady her before she fell. He kept close to Clary as the group of them approached Alec, who was crouched beside someone.

Dread dropped into Jace's stomach, a shiver of foreboding running up his spine.

He glimpsed the body and turned to Clary. "Don't look," he told her, pulling her closer. Too late. She saw the bloody corpse on the floor in front of Alec and paled, her eyes widening with horror.

"Oh my God," she breathed and he felt her tremble under his touch. Shivers of terror rippled across her skin and he rubbed her shoulder, his other hand pressing her face into his chest. He didn't want to subject her to the fright she felt. She squeezed her eyes shut, breathing rapidly against his collarbone. He wanted to leave – to take Clary far away from here – but he couldn't bring himself to move.

"Holy shit." Jonathan whistled and Jace looked up at his friend. Jonathan stared at the body and something shifted over his black eyes, an undecipherable emotion. _Fear,_ Jace thought. _Sympathy._

Except Jonathan didn't feel fear or sympathy for anyone.

He didn't ponder on it much more. He heard Alec's words: _he's dead._ Jace was used to his fair amount of trouble, to adrenaline and fear pulsing through his veins; he created it for himself, often, when he was bored. But nothing he'd ever felt before felt like this. The raw and unfiltered fear and cold confusion of seeing a dead body lying broken on the floor, the fluorescent lights bleaching the scene, making it seem like something from a horror movie.

He felt a patch of dampness on his chest and looked down, realizing Clary was crying into him. A ball of emotion clogged his throat as a surge of protectiveness he felt for her washed over him.

"I'm getting her out of here." He told Alec. He just waved Jace away, his blue eyes the only telling of the panicked emotion beneath. Jace felt something like pity for Alec but he quelled it quickly. He didn't do well with emotions he didn't understand. What was the point in feeling pity when you couldn't do anything to change the situation?

He laced his fingers in Clary's and pulled her away from the group, nodding a goodbye to Jonathan. His friend still seemed lost in thought, subdued almost. Jace returned his attention to Clary. She seemed so pale, frozen with fear. There was nothing of the girl he saw upstairs in her now, but Jace didn't care. He pushed open the fire exit of the club and led Clary out to the back, to the staff parking lot.

Sirens blared in the city, getting louder and louder. The Police would be here soon. He unlocked his car and opened the passenger door. He eased Clary into the seat and reached over to buckle her seat belt up. She still hadn't spoken and Jace found himself getting more and more concerned. He knew she was in shock but her lack of response was alarming him. He jogged around to his side of the car and jumped into the driver's seat, shoving the key in the ignition and reversing out of the parking lot cleanly. He shifted his gear stick into Drive and pulled out onto the main road.

"Clary?" He said, his eyes flicking to her as they pulled up to a red light. "Are you okay?"

She didn't respond. She clutched at her arms desperately and her body was shaking with chills now. Jace wished he had a blanket in the car or something to comfort her. He hated seeing her so vulnerable, hated feeling so helpless.

"I'm taking you back to mine – Raziel's Court is about three blocks away."

Still, no response.

"Clary, talk to me," he murmured, feeling the tendrils of anxiety creep into his tone. _"Please."_

"I don't know what to say."

The words were barely audible, but she'd responded nonetheless. He sagged against his seat, relieved, and made a sharp turn onto another street. The car behind him honked his horn at his lack of indication and Jace swore at the driver, "Fuck off, bastard."

After what seemed like forever, Jace pulled onto the gravel drive, feeling the stones crunch beneath the tires, and jumped out the car. He opened Clary's door and helped her out. She was still shaking and seemed barely able to stand. She stumbled and Jace rolled his eyes, trying to hide his concern with his blasé body language.

He crouched down to feed his arm behind her knees and gathered her to his chest. She was as light as he anticipated – she was not largely built, after all. Her fingers clutched at his shirt subconsciously and he swallowed as he walked up the driveway to the Herondale Manor.

She didn't resist or stop him. He took that as a very bad sign. Weren't girls supposed to shout and scream when you picked them up? He didn't know – he'd never held a girl like this before.

"You're in shock," he told her, letting out his breath in a rush. "You'll be okay."

"I know I will." He heard her say, her voice cracking. He could hear the vulnerability in her tone. "I'm with you."

He didn't know what to say to that. He felt something in his abdomen. Not lust or desire, or fear or anxiety as he would expect. But something else. Something lighter, something that felt like splashing water. He didn't understand it and was too busy to try.

Once inside the manor, he laid her on a bed in his room upstairs. He wanted her to sleep the shock off, hoped it would cure the frailty about her. He pulled the comforter over her, touching her cheek gently.

"Are you hungry?" He asked her and she shook her head, her hands twisting in the comforter. He frowned.

"You should eat something." He racked his brains, unsure when the groceries had last been delivered. "I have some chips in here…" He didn't want to wake the house up by venturing into the kitchen, but he would if he had to.

"I'm not hungry." She said and he watched as her lip trembled. She was still cold.

"I…I don't have any blankets." He'd never felt so useless before. He hovered about, running a hand through his golden hair uneasily. "I have a sweater you can borrow."

She just nodded and he reached for the first sweater he saw from his closet. She tugged it on and snuggled against his comforter, her flame red hair fanned out on his white pillow. She was still shivering, but not as violently now. He watched her eyes drift shut. Satisfied that she was as safe as he could get her, he stepped towards the door.

"Jace?"

He turned back, his eyes meeting hers. The green of her irises was so vivid; it was a color he knew he'd never forget.

"Will you stay with me?" She asked, her voice quiet and unsure. "I don't think I want to be alone."

He froze, his stomach jumping with that annoying splashing sensation again. She misread his hesitation and bit her lip, shifting her gaze from him. "You don't have to…I just…"

He kicked his shoes off and approached her. "I'll stay," he said. He peeled back the comforter on his side of the bed and got in. He stayed there, his hands on his stomach, unsure what to do. Did she want him to hold her? He wanted to. He was afraid of making her uncomfortable. He wasn't very good at comforting or emotions or anything. With the other girls, he just had his share of fun and left. He kept himself distant, unattached. He had a feeling he'd already failed on that front with Clary. He couldn't leave her. Not like this. Not now.

He lay next to her. He was aware of how close she was, aware of each breath she took. He wondered why he was doing this; Clary's voice from earlier that day danced in his mind: _why do you care so much?_

He truly didn't have an answer for that.

His mind was racing but he didn't have to worry. Clary shifted over to him and lifted her head to rest against his chest, her hand scrunching his shirt by her cheek. He stayed there, one hand on his stomach by her elbow and the other hovering, hesitant, over her body. After what felt like forever, he placed it against her back, in the curve of her waist, holding her closer to him. She breathed steadily; she was already asleep.

Carefully, so as not to wake her, he moved a lock of her red hair over her ear, taking in her face, innocent and untouched by the darkness he immersed himself in daily. She was untouched by the stain of the city, the pollution of Jonathan Morgenstern and Jace Herondale. He felt a shred of self-hatred. He was tainting her purity, dragging her down with him. Part of him didn't want to, but the other part couldn't bear the thought of closing himself off to her.

"Goodnight, Clary," he said, his voice soft, anguished with the ghosts of his torment. "You'll be okay."

* * *

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	8. Confiding in the Stranger

**Enjoy and R&R? Update soon.**

* * *

When Clary awoke, she didn't immediately open her eyes. The weight of last night's events pressed down on her and for a moment, she found it hard to breathe. She remembered all the blood, saw Alec's anguished face, heard Jace's voice: _Clary, talk to me. Please._

She'd felt shut off from the world. Isolated. It was one thing to know people were dying from Heavenly Fire, and that Isabelle had seen that first-hand. It was a complete other thing to see the corpse with her own eyes. Her pulse quickened with the fear she felt; he'd been so pale, so broken, blood streaming mercilessly from his eyes and nose, oddly bright underneath the fluorescent lights. She remembered her mind screaming at her, her body trembling with terror. It was too close to home, all of it. The drug, the dead teenagers, the blood. Flashbacks shot through her and a shiver ran over her spine.

Clary's mind turned to Jace. He'd been so kind to her – nothing like the boy everyone described. The Jace she saw hadn't been unruly, dangerous or callous. He'd been uncertain, concerned and even a little _scared_. The attraction she felt for him didn't lessen; she didn't understand why she was so drawn to him. She remembered the feeling of disappointment she'd felt when he'd stepped to leave her by herself last night, remembered the dull ache in her chest – not the twinge of desire but loneliness. She wanted him to stay with her and he had, and she had slept soundlessly on him– undisturbed. As if he was still here, she could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against her cheek. It had been comforting, really, and his fingers had drawn slow unconscious circles against her hip, underneath his sweater, sending her into peaceful oblivion.

She barely knew him – he was infamous for his pitiless use of women and his violent behavior around the city. The Clary she'd been back at home would never have considered even talking to someone like Jace Herondale; she'd been too quiet, too settled, too reticent. Who was this flame-haired, passionate girl who'd taken her place? Why did she feel something so strong for a man she barely understood?

She opened her eyes. The ceiling of Jace's room stretched beyond her vision. There were no cracks, but the paint was slightly uneven – heavily layered towards the door and sparely coated by the window. His black walls were bare. No photographs, no certificates, nothing to give away his past. Her gaze brushed over the furniture. One desk, hardly used judging by the layer of dust coating it. One closet, still hanging slightly open from when Jace had offered her his sweater. A chest of drawers, each fully closed. A small smile twitched at her lips. Jace Herondale was a clean freak. Everything was neatly organized, placed and set aside. Who knew that the city rebel was so tidy?

"You're awake."

She jumped at the sound of his voice, sounding so close to hers. She placed a hand against her chest and scowled. "You scared me to death."

He narrowed his perfectly golden eyes, unsmiling, lounging against the doorframe. "Touchy subject, redhead. Death."

She winced. An undecipherable emotion passed over his eyes. She blinked, wondering if it was a trick of the light.

"Did you sleep well?" He asked her, picking at his nails with a bored expression. He was so blunt, offhand and cool. He'd showered and changed his clothes; his hair was damp and tousled, and he wore dark jeans, a clinging white shirt and his usual leather jacket. She swallowed and looked away.

"Well enough." She sat up and ran a hand through her red hair. It was knotted and needed a good wash. She still wore the black dress and fishnet tights, though some of her decency was covered by Jace's sweater. She felt her cheeks warm. "Thank you," she mumbled.

He didn't respond. There was something closed off about his expression, an unexplainable emotion swirling deep within his eyes.

Clary looked towards the alarm clock and tensed. It was eight in the morning. She had an hour before her first lesson of the day and she knew her mom would freak when she realized Clary hadn't been home all night. She contemplated not going home at all this morning. Maybe Jocelyn would take the time of the rest of the day to calm down.

"Can I use your shower?" She asked Jace, pulling the comforter off her body and standing up. She was consciously aware that she had no other clothes with her – she texted Isabelle to ask if she could bring some clothes over to Jace's; she knew the Lightwoods lived nearby. She spared a thought for Alec, wondering how he was doing. It wasn't his fault the boy had taken Heavenly Fire in his club, but she knew he would be blamed. The world wasn't fair.

"Be my guest." Jace smirked, but it didn't reach his cold eyes. She frowned. What was up with him? She padded over to the ensuite bathroom, feeling his gaze follow her across the room. She felt awkward and embarrassed; what was he thinking?

He wasn't completely closed off; he did hand her two towels and switch on the shower for her. He didn't look her in the eye at all. It was almost like he was uninterested by her, like he didn't care to even look at her. Clary felt confusion pool inside her. Confusion and resentment. Why was he acting this way? She thought they were friends – or at least on their way to be. She wasn't under some vapid illusion that she could ever be anything more than that; she was just a game to Jace, a toy. She'd accepted that; liked it, even. Being with Jace was easy when emotions didn't get in the way.

The confusion and resentment conflicted with that. She felt a pang of seclusion in her gut. Were all the people at Seduce so detached and closed off from other people? She'd been here for weeks and still didn't have anyone she could call her friend.

She showered quickly and dried her hair with the towel, brushing it through with her fingers and tying it into a knot at the back of her head. The girl in the mirror looked tired, but her green eyes were bright with sadness and confusion and hurt. She tried to quell the emotions; the last thing she wanted was for Jace to question them.

She opened the door and peered out, clutching at the towel around her body. Isabelle was taking a long time to bring clothes.

Jace wasn't in his room. She didn't know where he was. She took a deep breath and stepped out, praying that he didn't come back before she was dressed. She grabbed her cell and called Isabelle. It went straight to voicemail and she groaned internally.

"Feeling better?"

A small squeak escaped her mouth as she jumped again and she clutched at her towel to keep it from slipping from her body. Jace stood against his closet, arms crossed, a humored glint to his distant eyes. His gaze raked her nearly-naked body and she felt exposed, standing before him, covered only by a thin, white towel. Clary glared at him, despite her discomfort. His stare burned her skin.

"Isabelle's not answering her phone," she said, ignoring his question. Jace frowned.

"Isabelle?"

"Yeah. You know, tall, brunette, wears short skirts and sleeps around for money-"

"I know who you mean." He rolled his eyes and it was the first true emotion Clary had seen on his face since she'd woken this morning. Exasperation, at least, was better than the icy Jace she'd seen before. "Why did you call her?"

"I wanted her to bring some clothes over for me," she explained, feeling heat rise in her cheeks. Honestly, her face was going to be the same color as her hair if she carried on. Why was she so embarrassed around him? She tried to put up the mask of confidence she'd worn last night at the club, but she couldn't help but feel it was entirely false. She didn't feel confident, and Jace knew it.

Jace opened the door to his closet and pulled out some clothes. "I can't say anyone would have minded; seeing you turn up to college in that dress."

She gaped at him. How could he act so cold one minute and then flirt the next? "It's impractical," she snapped and his smirk only grew.

"Isabelle leaves at seven thirty every morning to cash in the previous night's takings on the way to college." Jace told her, chucking the clothes her way. Clary struggled to catch them without the towel falling from her body. She managed it, barely. "She's busy – may be why she's ignoring your text."

"I _called_ her."

"And you texted her," he corrected and she scowled. He was astute – nothing slipped past him. She felt her sadness and loneliness slide away to anger and frustration toward his cold demeanor.

"These are your clothes," she said through her teeth.

"The pants aren't," he said, running a finger over his lip absentmindedly. "They're not mine."

Clary lifted the jeans and narrowed her eyes. They were evidently female, black and tight-fitting. She knew she'd have trouble fitting them on even her small frame. They were built for a stick.

Jace seemed to realize the same thing. "Ironic, really, if they don't fit you. You're so small. Probably one of the smallest girls I've been with."

She took a step back, outraged. "You haven't _been_ with me." She said, though it was not the most important thing on her mind. His lips twitched into a knowing smile. She knew what it spoke of: an unmentioned word at the end of her sentence. _Yet._

"Who do these belong to?"

"I have no idea." Jace said honestly. He pulled a face. "Didn't catch her name. She was fun, though. For the night. She gave good head – bit sloppy, but good."

"Ugh."

Disgusted, she gathered the clothes and stormed to the bathroom. He stepped in front of her so quickly, she nearly crashed into him. She froze and looked up at him, her lips parting. She was aware of how near he was, how his forehead nearly touched hers, how close their mouths were. She could feel his warm breath fanning over her hairline and she tried not to shiver with pleasure. Damn these feelings. Damn them. She wanted to be disgusted by him, wanted to hate his history and judge him for it. Try as she might to be angry, she found herself still distracted by the touch of his hand against her wrist, keeping her still. Her anger was futile.

She tilted her head back, swallowing some of the space between their lips. Her heart was pounding madly in her chest and she found it difficult to breathe regularly. His golden eyes watched her carefully, scanning her face, tracing the skin of her neck, resting on the curve of her breasts bound only by the towel. His eyes darkened. She remembered that dark, liquid golden color from last night; it had been the only thing she saw when she had touched him, pressed her body against his, felt his arousal press into her thighs. The tension crackled between them as he moved his hand from hers and ran his fingers lightly up her arm, over the bump of her collarbone and finally, resting at the small swell of her chest. His thumb played with a small snag of the towel, idly, his face clouded with lust-filled thoughtfulness. The feel of his hand brushing her breast made her want to kiss him again, but she refrained, holding her breath. After a moment, his eyes took on that earlier aloofness and he stepped back. She felt his absence like a punch in the gut, cold and uncaring.

"I think you should get dressed and leave," he said bluntly. She stood there, gaping, her mind's cloud of thoughts of his lips on hers, of his touch igniting the nerves on her skin, punctured by his harsh words. She mentally shook them off and glared at him, anger seething. A stab of hurt pinched at her stomach. "I'll want my shirt back."

"Dick," she snapped and stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door. She knew she was being ridiculous – perhaps he didn't mean to be so direct – but she couldn't shake the feeling that something within Jace had changed overnight. What once felt playful and teasing was now cool and distant. She dressed quickly, pulling the shirt over her head. It was too big for her and came down to her mid- thighs. She didn't care. She didn't particularly feel very glamorous today, anyway. The material held his scent, despite being recently washed. Underneath the aroma of the detergent, she could smell his trademark scent: smoke and mint.

She screwed up Isabelle's dress and shoved it in her bag; she'd give it back later. She hesitated when she saw Jace's sweater on the floor, left there by her when she'd showered. She picked it up and held it close, the wave of loneliness washing over her again. Carefully, she folded the sweater up and placed it in her bag. Jace would probably want it washed before she gave it back.

He wasn't in the room when she emerged, fully dressed. Her anger had cooled to ice and she grabbed her phone from the bedside table and left. She didn't see Jace – or anyone else – at all on her way out.

* * *

Isabelle walked to class alone. Alec wasn't going to college today; he refused on the grounds of recovering from the aftermath of last night. The both of them had been up until late, answering questions from the Police and undergoing interrogations. The authorities didn't suspect her; how could they when her name wasn't on the ownership contract?

They were suspicious of Alec. The thought drove a knife into her gut. She hated the idea of her brother being in trouble, loathed the picture of his face behind bars. It wasn't his fault, goddammit! Did no one understand?

The Police were expected to visit Alec at the Lightwood Manor again this morning and Isabelle had forced him to promise to keep her in the loop. She felt tense and stressed, the image of the dead boy's face flashing behind her eyelids every time she closed her eyes.

Walking through the Union wasn't fun. By now, news of the death had spread and the other students eyed her with ranging emotions – some suspicion, some sympathy and some pure hatred. They talked about her behind her back; she could hear their whispered words.

"Jealous of Alec…"

"Wished she was as successful…"

"Framed him…"

She bit down on her lip, hard, and tasted blood. Despite her annoyance towards their rumor-spreading, she also couldn't help but scoff at their claims. Did they not know how close she was with her brother? Their relationship was strong and any loyalty they felt was only to each other. The Lightwood siblings were inseparable. They fought each other's battles together, loved together, lost together, succeeded together. They were one in the same.

She couldn't deny that last rumor, though. It seemed too much of a coincidence. The last victims had been regular customers of Seduce and one of them had died there. Someone was making it look like the drug was being dealt at the club and that cast immediate suspicion over its owner. It was an obvious link. Someone was trying to frame Alec; the thought terrified her. Not because of the possible repercussions of prosecution – though that still chilled her – but because she had no idea what Alec had done to earn himself an enemy. Who was doing this?

"Isabelle!"

She recognized the voice and sighed. She did not need Simon Lewis on her back today. She was exhausted and stressed and worried for her brother. She didn't want to play seductive escort. She heard his footsteps trail after her and sped up in a fruitless attempt to lose him. She didn't smile when he caught up to her.

"I wanted to ask you something," he said. There was no judgment in his brown eyes behind his glasses, no worry. So he hadn't heard the news about the Lightwoods' fall. That didn't surprise Isabelle; Jonathan had already said that Simon never heard any gossip, that he was oblivious to everything outside of his own little bubble. He didn't even know the reputation that preceded her name.

She didn't answer him, so he carried on speaking.

"How did you know about the coding error?" His voice was soft, genuinely interested. She turned to him, exasperated. He was bringing this up now? He stared at the floor, nervous, wringing his hands, before he looked up at her. "I mean, you don't seem like the type of girl to know computer language – whoa, your eyes are red."

She blinked and looked away. They were out of the Union, now, and she no longer felt the weight of the students' gazes on her back. This stretch of green was quiet and peaceful, at conflict with the furious wave of frustration that built within her. She found herself ranting about meaningless nothingness, taking Simon by complete surprise. His eyes widened.

"What, so I'm expected to look beautiful every single day? I can't take a day off? My eyes are red – _big fucking deal,"_ she snapped. "I think I deserve to look like shit after the night I've had, okay? I'm tired, stressed and pissed offso just do me a favor and leave me alone."

He just looked at her, his eyes scanning her face, concerned. "Are you finished?"

"Yeah," she mumbled, half-embarrassed. She didn't really want him to go; ironically, he was the only person aside from Alec who seemed to accept her fully. Perhaps that had something to do with how little he knew about her. "Sorry."

He touched her wrist gently, his fingers smoothing her skin. She wanted to jerk away from him; she hated the idea of duping him without meaning to. But she didn't – the feeling of his hand on hers was comforting and his sympathetic warmth was something she could get used to. It was foreign but not unwelcome.

Her phone pinged and she dug it out of her pocket. The text was from Alec and a weight dropped into her stomach as she read it and she let out a breath, feeling unshed tears sting her eyes.

_The club's under investigation. So am I._

"Isabelle, what's wrong?" Simon reached for her as she was overcome by a wave of dizziness, his hand gripping her shoulder to keep her balance. "You need to sit – you're swaying slightly."

She shook her dizziness off and he dropped his hand. "No." A buzzing in her ears almost deafened her. She couldn't think, she couldn't breathe. Seduce was under Police investigation and Alec was a suspect for dealing Heavenly Fire. She tried to calm herself: they'd realize he was innocent eventually, right? The justice system was thorough.

_Is it?_ The thought played on her mind. Jonathan and Jace had committed crimes before and other people had gone down for it. They were the prime example of the flaws in the justice system. If it was faultless, they'd be behind bars already, and stuck there for most of their lives.

"I'll get you some coffee," Simon promised and held out his hands in a gesture that could only be taken as the universal sign for 'stay'. "Don't go anywhere. I'll be back with coffee in about one hundred and eighty four seconds."

She barely heard him but her eyes followed him to the Starbucks across the path. For an early college morning, the line was short and within less than a minute, Simon was at the front of the small crowd, waving his hands frustratedly and gesturing back to Isabelle. After a while, his shoulders slumped and he walked back toward her, looking dejected. She watched him as a breeze rippled through the green, whistling through her hair, sending it into an uncontrollable mess. Shivers rippled on her skin.

"I'm banned from that store," he explained regretfully. "Because they know who I'm friends with."

Isabelle choked on a laugh, despite the miserable turmoil within her. "Is that a common occurrence?"

"Happens all the time," Simon shrugged, looking forlorn. "I'm sorry. There's this place downtown that still lets me in. The owner trusts me. But we can't go there – you'd miss your first lesson."

Isabelle found herself nodding. She wanted to go with him, wanted someone to take her mind off things. Simon wasn't hard to persuade; she just needed to leak some of her seductive charms and he was influenced.

As they made their way out of the college, Simon cast a glance at her. Isabelle caught it, despite his obvious attempt at trying to be furtive.

"You're cold," he said, noting the way she rubbed her arms. She wasn't that cold; the shivers were more the result of the shocked stress she felt. She shrugged, uncaring.

"Here…" he said, pulling off his trench coat. "Wear my coat. It'll…um…warm you up. I don't want you to be cold."

Isabelle smiled at him gratefully, a genuine feeling of conviviality spreading through her. She liked that he cared enough to notice what was wrong. She liked that he was so attentive, noting the redness of her eyes, the shivers on her skin, the trouble on her face. No one paid that much attention to her. Sure, she was used to the superficial attention – men looked at her all the time, slid their gazes over her like she was a slab of meat, touched her body like they owned it – but no one ever took the time to talk to her, to ask her how she was feeling. It was a first for her.

Hesitantly, he smiled back. He was shy and unsure but confident in his worry for her wellbeing. Pleasant surprise washed through her. Why did he care so much?

She fed her arms through the sleeves of the coat and wrapped it around her body, folding her arms over her chest to preserve her warmth. Simon's scent swept over her: he smelled of fall leaves, mixed spice and boy. She caught herself burying her nose into his coat, inhaling his wonderful aroma, and she stopped, a feeling of awkwardness worming in her stomach. She was never awkward around guys. She took the lead, let them follow.

Eventually, they reached the coffee store and Isabelle held a table while Simon bought their drinks. When he sat down opposite her, she shrugged his coat off and wrapped her hands around the steaming cup of coffee.

"Cappuccino," Simon said quietly. "I forgot to ask you what you like…I hope you do like it – I can get something else if you don't-"

"Simon," she interrupted, meeting his eyes. "It's fine. Thank you."

He looked at her for a minute before shaking his head. "Uh…you're welcome…um, it's totally cool. Yeah."

She hid her smile behind her cup. He was as nervous as she was. Whilst he was probably used to the feeling, she was a complete stranger.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong?" Simon leaned back into his chair, picking absently at the cardboard sleeve of his cup. "Why you're upset?"

She took a deep breath and shook her head. How could she explain what was wrong when she had to keep her identity a secret from him? If he knew about Seduce and her involvement at the club, he would instantly change his opinion of her. The thought tore at Isabelle's chest and stung her eyes. She blinked the pain away rapidly. She couldn't bear the thought of him knowing the truth about her. The idea of him knowing the reality was as torturous as him not. She didn't know which she'd prefer: for him to know everything about her or know this pretend-Isabelle she showed him.

It was a performance that balanced on the skill of her acting. One missed cue would ruin everything.

"So," Simon bit his lip, as if debating his next words. "I buy you coffee to cheer you up and you don't want to tell me what's wrong?"

When he put it like that…Isabelle sighed. She didn't want to offend him and part of her did want to confide with someone outside of Alec. She opened her mouth and closed it again, debating. Simon watched her, still fiddling with his coffee, and waited patiently, his gaze reassuring.

"My...brother is in trouble…" Isabelle said carefully. "For something he hasn't done."

"Alec? The one that owns that club, right?" Simon asked, placing his coffee on the table and folding his hands in his lap. "What is he in trouble for?"

Isabelle shook her head, closing her mouth. "I can't say," she said regretfully. She knew the investigation was being kept under wraps, for now, so there was no way she could divulge that information to Simon. She was shocked, actually, that he even knew Alec owned the club. If he knew about Alec, did he know about her? She doubted it. Isabelle rarely made the news – only ever indirectly: _Alec's beloved sister_ or _the_ _Lightwood daughter_ – and her reputation was only spread by word of mouth. Since Simon didn't listen to rumors and hearsay, she thought she was safe.

"Okay," Simon seemed unbothered by her response. "What's happening to him?"

"He's going under Police investigation," Isabelle said, reading a new text from Alec, "but someone else is framing him. Making it seem like he did it when he didn't."

_We carry on as normal. The investigation is private, for now. No media coverage. Yet. Club's opening as usual – I think they're putting undercover agents in the club to find other suspects. They not one hundred percent convinced it's me. Just about eighty. I have no link to a Sebastian, after all._

Isabelle swallowed the lump in her throat, remembering the news article from last week that detailed the new lead of the supplier as Sebastian. She glanced up at Simon.

His eyes lit with interest. "That stuff really happens?" He pushed his glasses up his nose. "I thought that only ever happened in the movies."

Isabelle gave a very unladylike snort and sat back. She didn't care how she looked. She was off duty, now. She was just looking for company, for friendship, and was content to have Simon be exactly that. "It appears that it is a real thing."

Simon clasped his hands on his knees with an apologetic glance. Apparently, his fanboy self wasn't supposed to escape. "So who do you think it is?"

Isabelle shrugged. "I have no idea. If I lose him…" Her eyes pricked with tears of frustration, rage and helplessness, and she wiped angrily at her eyes. "I shouldn't be crying, damn it. _Lightwoods don't cry. _I'm sorry. Give me a second."

"Iz," he murmured and he stood. She took her hands away from her face to see him standing before her, offering his hand. She just looked at him, unsure. Was this a trick? A trick to try something on her? Other men had tried it before. Pretended kindness and then proved to have a horrible, hidden agenda. She couldn't entertain the idea that Simon had any ounce of the common evil she came across in men. There was nothing but genuine concern on his face, worry and kindness swirling in his brown eyes. Hesitating only slightly, she slid her hand in his. He pulled her up and into his arms with strength she didn't expect from someone like him. He embraced her tightly. She wrapped her arms around his neck and settled her head on his shoulder, her nose pressed against his neck. His arms wound around her waist and he let her cry as he held her close. She didn't care that the other people in the coffee shop were staring, didn't care that she looked unattractive, her eyes red and swollen, her skin blotchy. She didn't care that she was supposed to be seducing this man and was probably scaring him away, instead. She just wanted a shoulder to cry on, wanted the company that only another human being could offer.

"You're probably disgusted by me," she mumbled against his neck and his arms tightened around her.

"Not at all," he said, smoothing her back with his hand. It was a comforting sensation. "I'd have been disgusted if you didn't cry, really. With what's going on."

She never cried. She wasn't supposed to be now,she thought. Would he be disgusted by her if he knew who she really was, beneath this blanket of chaos and secrecy and emotional turmoil?

"I'm here. If you need anyone…if you ever feel alone…I'll always be here to help you, Isabelle Lightwood."

She stepped back and wiped her tears. He reached out and touched her face, brushing a stray tear, subconsciously. She smiled at him, weakly. His eyes were soft with tenderness and Isabelle felt a pang of surprise. He cared about her. They'd only met twice before. She wasn't an expert on human nature – she didn't usually feel emotions like everyone else – but she thought it too little time to feel something like affection for her. Perhaps, Simon was the opposite of her. She didn't feel emotions; she was an ice queen. He felt too many; he was sensitive.

The sensitive boy with a big heart and the deceptive girl with a cold one. They were such an unlikely pair, she thought. She wondered, dimly, if their friendship would last when he figured out the truth. She didn't know the answer to that.

* * *

Jocelyn stared at her painting and her shoulders slumped. She couldn't concentrate. Clary had been out all night and hadn't returned home this morning. Jocelyn thought she'd probably headed straight to college, but worry still gnarled at her stomach. Kids were dying out there, on the streets. She didn't want her daughter in any danger. Not to mention the horror of Clary stumbling across Valentine or Jonathan Morgenstern.

In frustration, she threw her pencil at the easel and picked up a nearby cushion and launched it across the room, shouting in irritation.

"Don't blame the cushion," someone said. "It didn't do anything to you."

She didn't turn around. "Luke," she said, closing her eyes, "haven't you got work to do?"

"I'm entitled to a half-hour break every day, ma'am." He made his way over to the open-plan kitchen and Jocelyn's gaze followed him, eyes narrowed. He gestured to the kettle. "May I?"

"I don't see why not." She couldn't refuse him a drink, no matter how unforgiving she was feeling. She stood and stomped over to the kitchen to pull out two mugs alongside him. Luke huffed with amusement, that annoyingly kind smile still etched on his face.

They prepared the coffee and cookies in heavy silence. Eventually, Luke spoke, his voice muffled by the cookie in his mouth. "Are you always so angry?"

Jocelyn stilled. "I'm not angry," she said nonchalantly, her back to him as she mopped the counter down with a dish cloth she'd found on the sink.

"Sure you are. I haven't seen you smile since I've been here."

She cocked her head to the side, staring at the cupboard before her. "Does that not seem like a hint to you?"

Luke laughed and the sound sent pleasurable shivers down her spine. She wanted to see his face, but was afraid of what she would feel if she did. Slowly, she faced him. He stood close to her, and she pressed herself against the counter, trying to keep as much distance between them as possible. He stared at her, his eyes scanning her face.

"You've had your fair share of trouble, Jocelyn." He took a step towards her. "Right?"

"What do you mean?"

Luke reached around her to pour the hot water into the mugs. Jocelyn couldn't move, was trapped by his body so close to hers.

"Well," he cleared his throat and handed her a filled mug of coffee. The bitter scent clouded her thoughts and she barely heard his next words. "Someone so angry must have a reason."

"What makes you think I'd divulge that with you?" She took a sip, feeling the liquid burn her lip. She hid her wince of pain.

"Oh, I don't think that." He stepped back, giving her some breathing room. "But you could humor me."

She choked and placed her mug on the counter, wetting her scalded lip. She wasn't going to tell him anything, and he was being foolish if he thought that she would share her personal life with him. Nonetheless, she humored him and asked, "What do you want to know?"

"How do you know Valentine?"

She bristled, walking away from him to put the milk in the fridge. "I don't think that's something you need to know."

"You were married to him, weren't you?" He carried on and she froze, nearly dropping the milk. She turned back, her hands like ice around the bottle.

"How do you know that?"

Luke cocked his head to the side, running a hand through his ragged brown hair. There was no malevolence in his gaze, only light kindness. "It doesn't take a genius to put two and two together. You hate him enough that you won't talk about him but you follow his every move and track his successes. Two conflicting emotions, I think. Such strong hatred warred with the love you used to feel for him. That leads me to think you were married and…" his eyes narrowed in thought, "_you_ called it off."

She gaped at him, shocked that he knew so much about something she'd kept private for so long. "You've been snooping through my things." Her tone was accusatory.

He shook his head, smiling slightly. "No, I'm just perceptive," he said honestly. "What went wrong?"

"Okay, _enough!"_ Jocelyn slammed the fridge door shut and whirled to face him. "Who are you? Why do you know so much? What is your deal with Valentine?"

Luke didn't answer her questions. "Is Jonathan yours, too? Clary is Valentine's daughter – I can see his ruthlessness in her, see that she – like her brother – is a law unto herself. Is Jonathan Morgenstern your son or born from another?"

She wanted to lash out, to hit him, to run away, to pretend this wasn't happening. She backed up, horror draining the blood from her face. She stumbled back and Luke took another step forward, concern flashing through his blue eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said, his hand reaching out to steady her. She shook it away. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"Well, you did a good job of that," she snapped. "Get out."

He stood there, the momentum leaving him, the curious light dying from his eyes. "He hurt you," he said, his tone laced with a profound sadness. "Didn't he?"

The silence that met his words was deafening. Jocelyn never expected to be talking about this, to be sucked into that time of horror and fear and desperation again. She clenched her hands into fists, her eyes closed, feeling her fingernails dig into her clammy skin.

"What do you want from me?" Her words were broken, a slight whisper.

Luke stepped back, hurt and shock flashing over his eyes. "I…I don't want anything, Jocelyn. I just want to know you."

She turned away from him, swiping at her eyes and taking a deep breath. There was a long moment of silence before she spoke again. Luke waited patiently until she spoke. "Valentine Morgenstern hurts people, remember? What makes you think I wasn't a victim of that?"

"What did he do to you?" Luke's voice deepened with an undercurrent of anger. "How did he hurt you?"

"He…" she inhaled deeply. She didn't know why she was telling Luke anything, didn't know why she had this overwhelming need to confide in someone when she'd confided in no one but herself until now. "He's a _monster_. He takes what he wants when he wants it, no matter who he hurts. Clary doesn't know. She doesn't know anything about her father or her brother. She thinks she's an only child and her dad is dead. You can't tell her, Luke. I kept it a secret for so long…to protect her."

"Why didn't you take Jonathan with you?" He asked. "When you left. You took Clary."

She winced as though he had hit her. "Valentine refused. He bribed lawyers and judges…he wanted it so that if I had a child, he had the other."

"Why?"

"Why do you think?"

Luke rubbed his cheek in thought, his blue eyes dark with an unreadable emotion. "So he had something over you."

Jocelyn spread her arms, shrugging lightly, defeat plain on her face. "He has my hands tied. I can't take a single breath if he doesn't authorize it. He has Jonathan and he wouldn't dismiss hurting him to get to me. I can't let that happen. He's my son, Luke. Mothers are supposed to want to do anything for their sons."

"But Jocelyn, Jonathan isn't the boy you think he is," Luke murmured. "He's not that son anymore. He's dangerous and hurts people-"

"He's like his dad." Jocelyn nodded, unshed tears swimming in her vision. "You think I can't see that? You think I don't hear it when his name is mentioned on the streets? You think it doesn't break my heart when I see the terrible man he's become? It crushes my soul, Luke. It _kills_ me inside."

Luke reached for her as the tears threatened to overflow, stroking his hand over her hair and holding her close. Jocelyn stood in his embrace, her body shaking with suffering, letting him comfort her. She blinked back her tears; she wouldn't cry. She worried whether it was a wise idea to tell Luke all of this; she barely knew him and every male she'd ever confided in had turned against her. Betrayed her.

Was Luke different? She'd watched him over the past few days. She'd seen little gems of his personality shine through in the things he did. She'd noticed the way he frowned when he was trying to solve a problem, noticed the way his pale blue eyes flickered up to hers when she entered the room, noticed the way he always asked her how she was feeling when he arrived to work every morning. He was genuine, at least. And she was tired of being alone all the time. Everyone needed someone. Jocelyn needed Luke.

"He holds an axe over my head, Luke, and always will," Jocelyn whispered. "The day Valentine Morgenstern dies is the day I will be truly free."

* * *

Clary tapped her foot edgily, her eyes on the clock. Jace hadn't bothered turning up to class and she wasn't surprised. Her canvas was on the drying rack and she was just waiting for the lunch bell to ring, now. Three minutes to go. She messed with Jace's sweater sleeve, impatient, reveling in the scent of smoky mint that pervaded her senses. She'd put it on earlier when the chill of the fall day had rippled goosebumps along her arm. Jace wasn't here to see her wear it, so she figured she was safe.

Her phone buzzed.

_Meet me in the Union._

Initially, she felt shock, fury and disdain flash through her but she pushed the feelings away. If Jace truly didn't want to see her, he wouldn't be texting her now. Clary smiled and held her phone close as her mind raced with thoughts unbidden. Jace was here, waiting for her. Despite her earlier annoyance towards him, she couldn't help the rising tide of excitement within her. When the bell rang, she almost shot out of her chair. She slowed her movements down deliberately, trying to calm the racing beat of her heart.

She followed the crowd of students as they made their way to the Union, hearing their chatter quiet to gossiping whispers. She wondered what they were talking about, waited for them to drift off to their friends and let her find Jace.

He was hard to miss. He stood against a motorbike, his arms crossed, a black and silver helmet in his hands. His golden hair was tousled with the wind and stood at stark contrast to his black leather jacket. He smirked at her and nodded in greeting as she approached him. She could feel everyone's eyes on her, judging, questioning. She supposed they thought she was Jace's next screw. Perhaps she was.

"You didn't come to class," Clary said, stopping a meter away from him. He tilted his head to the side, his eyes surveying her, light golden with humor and curiosity. "Why are you here?"

"Lunch break," he said, pulling a packet of chips from his pocket. He flashed them once before tucking them away again. "It's on me."

"What?"

He nodded to the bike and offered the helmet towards her. "Come on," he encouraged. "I want to show you something."

She eyed the bulky motorbike with something like terror. "Are you serious? I can't go on this. I'll die."

He took a step toward her, his eyes searing hers. His scent swirled around her and she couldn't help but think it was much better from the real person than from an item of clothing. "You don't trust me?"

Her mouth dried up. She could only see his eyes on her, the golden swirling within them. His lashes brushed his cheek as he blinked and something twisted in her stomach. She opened her mouth to respond at the precise moment Jace noticed what she was wearing.

"You took my sweater."

She looked down at his dark sweater and swallowed, pulling a guilty face. Her fingers released the sleeve; she didn't realize she'd been subconsciously playing with it. He reached forward, shifting the helmet underneath his arm, and touched her red hair, holding strands beneath his forefinger and thumb thoughtfully.

"I…I figured you'd want me to wash it before I returned it," she said, lifting her chin bravely.

"So you decided to wear it?"

She flushed and he grinned knowingly. "Come on, redhead. If you hurry, I can get you back before your afternoon lesson."

"You're not attending that one, either?"

"Oh, I have a life to live, Clary. Better places to waste my time." He smirked as he moved her hair to the side and helped her put the helmet on. "You'll see what I mean in a moment." He held his hand up for her to hit, clenched, and, grinning childishly, she met his fist with her own. "That's my girl," he winked.

This Jace was nothing like the Jace she'd been confronted with earlier but she wasn't about to complain. Instead, she mounted the bike behind him and wrapped her arms around his slim waist. She could feel the heat of his body against hers stirring the nerves in her skin, setting her alight. She tightened her grip and felt him chuckle against her.

"I won't let you fall, Clary." He placed his gloved hands over hers before letting go to rev his engine. The noise was thunderous. The last thing Clary saw was the thunderstruck faces of the other students as Jace sped away, the sound like an earthquake behind them, the wind whipping her hair and blurring her vision.

It took all the luck in the world for her not to fall off.

* * *

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	9. Perils of Distraction

**Enjoy! R&R?**

* * *

Clary had never experienced anything like this before. The wind whipped at Jace's sweater as it clung to her frame and she gripped Jace, her fingers clutching at his shirt, her nails digging into his abdomen. She wasn't afraid of falling off, per se, but she didn't feel completely safe, either. Perhaps it was the wind, the rush of traffic around them, or even Jace's presence; she wasn't sure.

After a long time, he pulled off onto a small rocky track, the bike bumping jarringly beneath them as it hit potholes and mounds of dirt. Mud sprayed up around them and she ducked, laughing, as the two of them were almost splattered. She heard Jace shout something but she couldn't make out his words. She knew they were out of the city, but she had no idea where.

He pulled up outside a small house, unnoticed by the main road, with boarded up windows and a decrepit front porch. Paint peeled from the door with the words _Alicante House_ hanging from rusted bolts. The roof was crumbling and the wood of its frame creaked with every sway of the breeze.

Jace helped her pull the helmet from her head and placed it under the seat. He didn't lock it, but then he didn't have to worry about anyone stealing it; there was no one around for miles. Rolls of fields stretched in the distance, and the only sign of civilization was the decaying house that stood before them. They were alone.

Clary took a deep breath. "Jace, what's this?"

He rocked on his heels and rubbed his hands together, looking between the house and Clary with a nervous expression. She raised her eyebrows, still waiting for a response. He wet his lips and placed his hands by his side, his posture tightly controlled. Clary waited, watching him carefully. He seemed to be waging an internal battle.

"I found this place when I was a kid," he said eventually, not looking her in the eye. His foot shuffled across the ground and dusty dirt powdered around his black boots. "I came here all the time."

She caught his use of the past tense and followed him up to the front door. The wood groaned beneath their footing but seemed stable, so she didn't worry too much. "You don't anymore?"

He didn't answer. He turned the handle and pushed open the door. It squeaked but opened easily and Clary couldn't help but wonder how many times Jace had come here. She wasn't worried about getting caught; it was obvious this place was abandoned.

The living room – Clary guessed – was a tip. Old, battered furniture littered the floor, upturned and damaged. Frames on the wall were smashed and hanging wonkily from the walls. The walls were cracked and powdered plaster fell from the ceiling when she shut the door behind them. There was no source of light, aside from the small cracks of the boarded up window in the far corner, and the dismal appearance pressed on Clary so much that she couldn't help but feel a little sad. Someone had a life here, once upon a time, and now it was a shattered memory of what used to be.

"This- this isn't what I want to show you," Jace reassured her, gripping her hand. He pulled her out of the living room and up some stairs. "I hoped I'd have time to clear every room up but I don't so…"

She didn't understand what he was trying to say. She didn't understand this quiet, subdued Jace at all. Nonetheless, she followed him as he led her to the first room on the right of the broken corridor. He hesitated at the closed door and his hands clenched into fists.

"What's wrong?"

He looked at her. There was a dark anguish in his golden eyes, his expression torn. Clary sucked in a sharp breath as her heart contracted with sympathy and shock. Where was the confident, distant Jace she knew? Who was this tortured man who'd taken his place?

"I haven't shown anyone this before," he told her honestly. His voice was choked. "It's…private."

Curiosity spiked and she tried to keep her voice level. She wanted to know what was beyond that door more than anything. She wanted to know _him. _"Not even Jonathan?"

"_Especially_ not Jonathan."

_Oh_, she thought. For Jace not to show even Jonathan this room was quite significant. She felt a sense of pride, of honor, at being the first person to ever see this place, this room that was so clearly dear to Jace.

He opened the door and stepped inside. She took a careful step forward, behind him, and he bit his lip and nodded. This was a big thing for him. This was something he was finding very difficult.

The room was empty apart from a single, blue blanket on the hard, wooden floor. At first, Clary felt a stab of disappointment, but then she noticed the walls.

Graffiti coated every wall, not a patch of blank to be seen. There were quotes but more often pictures. Graffiti cartoons. A small, golden-haired boy cried in the corner, his hands covering his face, the picture so detailed that Clary could see the individual button holes of his red and blue checked shirt. A similar-looking, older boy stood on the other side of the room, clutching tightly to a white-haired friend, a picture of unity. _'Saved' _was written between the two boys. Clary realized with a jolt that it was Jonathan. Jace had drawn their friendship.

Other quotes dotted the walls: 'The pain hurts…' and 'Remember why' and 'Don't cry your weakness away,' and 'Deserving of nothing, receiving of everything.' The latter was painted on top of another cartoon of Jace and Jonathan; little twelve-year-old boys, Jonathan's arms outstretched to Jace, as if showing him off to the world. Clary walked slowly towards it, her hand outstretched to touch the tanned face of small Jace; she did it almost without thinking. He looked so happy, interacting with Jonathan. Free. Nothing like the Jace she knew now.

"He'd never look that way."

Clary turned to Jace. "Hmm?"

"Jonathan." Jace ran a hand through his tousled hair, looking pained. "He was never that proud of me." He waved dismissively towards the painting on the wall. "That's just twelve-year-old me, wishing he was."

Clary's heart broke at his words and she turned away from him, not wanting to see that haunted look in his eyes. She continued to trace the graffiti paintings with her hands before she spoke. They were everywhere…not a patch of wall left clean. This must have taken him years. "This is something you did often?"

"Yeah." He cleared his throat. "I was a troubled kid. Still am, I guess."

"You love him." There was no question in her words. She'd known it anyway, but the words still stung. Their relationship was entirely one-sided, and Jace was so blinded by his love for his best friend that he couldn't see the truth. "Jonathan."

"He's the only one I can claim that for."

She kept her gaze fixed to the wall, her voice small. "Why?"

Jace didn't answer for a long time. He pointed to another painting. "You see this?"

Clary turned to face him, her gaze following his as he stared at another drawing on the wall at the far end of the room. This one was more violently painted, extreme colors of crimson, black, white and gold slashing across the wall. This was of Jonathan and Jace – around fifteen – sat beside each other against a decaying brick wall. Jonathan's hood covered his white hair, but his face was still visible, his smile warm and charming as he looked at Jace, who was clearly devastated by something. Crimson tears ran down his tanned face and for a moment, Clary thought of Heavenly Fire, but then she realized this painting was created long before the drug's outbreak, and the tears were tears of blood. A ribbon of golden tied the two boys' wrists together, a symbol of infinity. An oath of brotherhood.

"To love is to destroy and to be loved is to be the one destroyed." Jace read the words etched above the painting, his voice low. "Jonathan and I are both already destroyed. How can you destroy something that is already broken?"

Clary was finally beginning to understand. Being in this room, seeing pictures and the quotes so private –so secret to Jace's heart – was enlightening. She could begin to understand his mind, seeing the hundreds of secrets of his past etched onto the walls. Like a diary or a journal, this was Jace's soul, bared for her to see.

She stared at the picture for a long time. Two boys, intertwined in a friendship stronger and more toxic than any other she'd seen before. What drove them? What drove two small boys to become brothers in all but blood?

After a while, Jace sat in the center of the room, on the blanket, legs crossed, watching her. He didn't speak but he let her explore and it wasn't long before he was able to explain some of the reasonings behind the art.

Clary pointed to the crying boy in the corner, her hands touching his over his face. Jace spoke quietly and hesitantly, as though he wasn't sure whether he wanted to tell her even when the words were spilling from his lips. "I used to have a pet bird – a falcon. I taught it to obey me…to love me. If anything ever could love me…" He broke off and took a deep breath to start again. "My falcon loved me." He looked up at her, his golden eyes bright with emotion. "It loved _me_. I showed the world that it did. My world, at least. The next day, I found it dead. Broken neck."

Clary swallowed and brushed her fingers over the boy's face, hidden beneath his hands. "You cried?" She gestured to the painting, changing her question. "The boy?"

"All day and all night. But I tell you this, Clary," Jace paused and his gaze fixed on hers, solemn and dark. "The boy never cried again."

Clary nodded, a lump in her throat. She moved onto the next painting. It was smaller, barely seen beneath the words of heartfelt quotes of misery and confinement, of chaos and anger. It was a picture of a noose, and an anonymous hand pulled it tighter. Clary looked at Jace, waiting for an explanation.

But he didn't give one. He just stared at her, his golden eyes dark and unreadable, his posture taut as he fought for control. "Will you sit?"

Surprised, she joined him on the blanket. It was old and tattered – clearly from his childhood. Everything here had a history. From the boarded up windows and the blanket on the floor, to the pictures on the walls and the quotes that accompanied them. There was nothing here that didn't show of Jace's character, of his strength, self-loathing and misery.

Jace drew his legs up to his chin and watched her, his eyes never straying from her face. After a while, she grew more and more uncomfortable so she filled the silence with small talk.

"Why were you so distant earlier?"

He let out a breath and his fingers flexed against his legs, subconsciously. "I don't know. I was bored, I guess."

"You were bored?" Clary gaped, disbelieving anger sparking inside her. She turned away from him but then turned back. "If you're so bored by me, why am I here?"

Jace sat back, leaning on his elbows. He surveyed her coolly, his earlier vulnerability gone from his face, hidden by an emotionless mask. "I think you want more from this _thing_ we have than I am willing to offer."

She raised an eyebrow, shocked. "Oh, really? What _is_ this thing we have, Jace Herondale?"

He leaned forward again, so close that she could see the flecks of black in his golden eyes. His warm, minted breath caressed her face as he spoke, his voice so low that she struggled to hear him. "I don't want a relationship, Clary. I don't want hugs and love and soppy love songs. _Look around you._ What do you see? I'm a broken man. A broken man that leads a broken life. I don't want a relationship with you."

She tried to ignore the stab of hurt she felt deep in her gut. "Then what do you want?"

His forehead touched hers, his lips hovering over her mouth. She tried to breathe evenly, but his intoxicating scent swept over her and she wanted nothing more than to touch him – despite her anger – and let him kiss her again.

"I need a distraction, redhead," he whispered and a tremble ran over her spine. "No strings. No emotions. Just some fun. Can you be that kind of girl?"

Clary leaned into him, their lips barely touching as she inhaled the air he breathed. "I don't want to be hurt," she murmured, and he made a noise of comprehension.

"No emotions – how can you possibly get hurt when neither of us feels anything?" His hand reached up to twine in her hair, caressing the back of her neck, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. Shivers broke out over her skin and she tried hard to suppress the wave of desire that swept over her.

"You're just looking for sex?" Clary asked, her voice surprisingly even given the turmoil of lust within her. The thought didn't disturb her as much as she thought it would; sure, she was a virgin, and the thought of giving away her virginity on a meaningless screw was kind of repulsive to her. In a strange way, she also found the idea more liberating. There was so much pressure for her to choose the right guy to give herself to; why not just say 'to hell with it' and have the fun she so deeply craved? Being a simple distraction wasn't so bad; not when she craved his touch the way she craved the air she breathed.

"I'm looking for _fun_," he corrected, his golden eyes tracing her face. "Someone to distract me. If sex is part of that then, yeah, I guess so."

She knew it was wrong – to want this. She knew that wanting to be Jace's distraction was repulsive, shameful behavior. She should want to be more to him. She should want to be someone he loved, someone he cherished as his own. But she knew that there wasn't anything in Jace Herondale that could love. He was a broken man. So broken by something so terrible that he couldn't love anyone beside the boy he was bound to. What had happened to him? What had changed to crush Jace's soul?

She wanted to ask, but she knew she truly didn't want to hear the answer.

So, she gripped onto his shirt and pressed her lips against his. The now-familiar taste of mint pervaded her mouth and her lips parted, allowing him access. His tongue melded with hers as he pulled her over him, so she hovered over his body, kissing him on the blanket of the abandoned house. His hand brushed over her body, lingering at the hem of her sweater, barely caressing her skin as his other tangled in her red hair. She bit at his lip lightly and he gripped her tighter, groaning in response, his fingers massaging at the soft skin of her hips, edging underneath the band of her jeans. Her stomach writhed with the desire she felt and she wanted nothing more than to feel what she felt in that restroom, all those nights ago.

Without warning, Jace flipped them over, pressing her wrists into the floor with a frustrated growl. She let him kiss her, let him explore the skin of her bared throat with his mouth. He let go of Clary's wrists to slide his hands beneath her sweater and she used her freedom to tangle her fingers in his golden hair, yanking his mouth to hers again. Angry, he encircled her wrist with his fingers, pulling her hand away from his hair with a force that surprised her. Clearly, he wanted to be in charge.

"What do you want to do, Jace?" Clary whispered. She remembered the look in his eyes when she'd taken power over him last night, remembered the heat of his gaze as it seared her skin. _I will take you and I will fuck you until you scream my name, Clary Fray. _

"Always teasing, redhead," he breathed against her lips as his fingers adeptly popped the button of her jeans. She sucked in a sharp breath, longing and excitement churning within her. He reached for her hair and in the glint of sunlight from the shattered window, Clary saw carved lines etched into the skin of his arms. She froze and he shifted his weight slightly, sensing her unease.

"What's this?" She grabbed at his wrist, turning it over to scan the marks. Carefully etched scars traced his skin, faded over time. "Are these cuts?"

He shut down, pulling his arm away from her. "I don't want to talk about that."

"Jace…"

"Clary – it's none of your business," he snapped. "I'm _not_ talking about them."

She bit her lip, weighing her options. She felt like she'd been torn in two, knowing Jace had harmed himself like that. But she knew that no matter how far she pushed, he would never divulge his reasons. He was private and liked to own his secrets. The only way she'd ever have any chance of discovering the truth is if she stopped trying. The thought killed her inside; what had happened to Jace to make him hate himself so much? Who was this man who was driven to such misery and self-loathing that he inflicted damage upon his own body?

He wasn't going to talk about it, she knew. She wasn't going to give up. She just had to find another way to get to him.

She reached for him but he jerked away, watching her warily, his gaze guarded. She rolled her eyes, trying to ignore the stab of hurt deep in her gut. "I want to kiss you, jackass."

His lip twitched with amusement as the guardedness slipped from his face and it was his turn to reach for her. His fingers brushed her cheekbone as he kissed her, his tongue exploring her mouth. She savored the taste of him as his hands roamed her body until she lay beneath him and he was tugging at her waistband.

"Don't stop," she breathed, a tremble running over her skin, "but I'm not having sex with you yet."

He didn't miss a beat, his lips pressing against the hollow of her throat as he tossed her jeans away from them. "I don't need to have sex with you to make you cry my name, redhead."

His words played on her mind and she sucked in a sharp breath as his fingers danced along the insides of her thighs. She leaned on her elbows, watching him as he kissed the flesh of her abdomen, his touch sliding over her panties. She whimpered quietly as he pressed his index finger against her core and he grinned victoriously.

"You're mind is in contradiction with your body, Clary," he told her, his tongue tracing her inner thigh, climbing higher. His breath warmed the skin of her groin and she tried not to moan at the sensation. A shudder of pleasure rippled through her and she tried to concentrate on his words, but it was proving difficult. Every shift of his mouth against her skin, every twitch of his fingers on her body made he want to squirm and gasp with the burning need of more. "You don't want sex but…" he slipped his fingers underneath the line of her underwear and she writhed as he caressed her entrance. The temptation, the teasing, it was almost too much. "You're wet enough for me."

If anyone else had said that, she would have cringed. But Jace's voice was dark and seductive, confident and tempting. She wanted him more than anything. She wanted to feel his touch, feel his lips against hers, hear him say unspeakable, filthy things to her. "Jace…" she breathed and he pulled her underwear, kissing the skin of her bikini line as he pressed against the bundle of nerves again. She jerked and he pushed a hand against her hip.

"Keep still," he warned her, flashing a knowing smirk. "Don't move."

She made a sound of wanting as his head lowered. _No, _she thought as his lips pressed against the folds of her skin, _don't go there! _The words didn't come out of her mouth, though. Part of her was appalled, part of her intrigued. She worried that Jace would be disgusted by the taste of her. She wasn't sure what it'd feel like.

She found out a moment later. His kissed her, his lips pressing against her sensitive spot and she threw her head back to moan as waves of fire rippled over her skin. "Jace," she murmured again, but she couldn't process her thoughts enough to say anything else as he ran his tongue along her skin, causing the muscles in her thighs to tense and tremble. He chuckled, the sound sending vibrations through her body, and looked up at her, his golden eyes lighter now, no longer shaded by his earlier misery. Clary supposed that was what she was here for – what he wanted from her. She was just a distraction, someone to help him forget whatever happened in his past. She should be disgusted but instead she felt a sense of pride, of delight. _She_ was his distraction. No one else – for now, anyway. Just her.

Her thoughts spiraled into senseless pleasure when he slipped his finger inside her. Her back arched as her lips parted in a whimper as he thrust his finger deep inside her, quick and intense. "Oh God," she gasped, clutching at Jace's other arm, her nails digging into his bicep. The material of his shirt bunched under her fingers and she heard him hiss with pain as she scratched him. Guilty, she loosened her grip but he shook his head, his eyes silently begging with a need she couldn't understand.

"I like it," he told her, his voice hoarse, as though he didn't expect the words to leave his mouth. "Hold me. Don't let go."

She tightened her grasp as he changed it up for two fingers. She cried out as he thrust against her, the feeling of fullness slowly loosening as she relaxed. It was difficult – a rising sensation was climbing inside of her, tightening the muscles of her abdomen and thighs.

Jace's lips met hers and she kissed him feverishly, desire fuelling her. She thought she'd taste the remnants of herself on his tongue, but she didn't. He tasted of mint and charcoal, a strangely intoxicating combination. He took her hand and guided it to the skin of his torso beneath his dark shirt. She traced the planes of his chest, the lines of his abs, feeling him suck in a sharp breath under her touch. He knotted himself in her hair as he pulled her face up to kiss him, a low growl of frustration emanating from his lips.

"Come on, Clary," he urged softly. "I need you to fucking come for me. I need to hear you cry out."

She was surprised how much his words drove the desire rising within her. She never thought she'd like dirty talk, never thought it would help her along, but she was pleasantly surprised. His hand slowed down and she couldn't help but rock against him; she needed the friction, she needed the pace. The slow speed was dizzyingly torturous. He tipped her face up to his but didn't kiss her. She opened her eyes to see him watching her, his eyes dark with appreciation and desire and…affection? She wasn't sure. She couldn't think through the sensation, through her intensifying climax.

He seemed to know when she was on the brink. Without warning, he pulled out only to plunge his fingers deep inside her again and she cried out, the movement igniting her orgasm. Kissing her roughly, he swallowed her moans, murmuring her name softly between kisses.

"Jace," she breathed, laughing exhaustively when her climax had subsided. "I can't believe that just happened."

He chuckled softly, burying his face in her hairline as he withdrew and wiped his hand on the blanket. She tried not to feel the burning embarrassment that threatened to darken her cheeks. She looked away.

"Which part?" He asked her, smirking victoriously. Idly, he played with a stray lock of her red hair, almost without thought. He seemed lighter, no longer dampened by his earlier mood. Clary wondered if this was why he wanted her. She could see why he'd want a distraction. His temper had improved and he didn't seem to be worrying about his earlier problems.

"You know…" Clary stumbled with her words as he watched her, waiting for her to truly explain which part she liked the most. Her eyes flitted to the bulge in his pants and she bit her lip, her voice small when she spoke. "Don't you want anything back?"

He shook his head. "Not now." He smirked. "You're changing the subject. Which part?"

"All of it…" She mumbled, ducking her head. "Don't make me say it out loud. Please."

"Why are you embarrassed?" He surveyed her, his golden lashes fluttering as his eyes moved over her face, reading her expression. He handed back her clothes and she pulled them on before sitting back down on the blanket, in front of him.

She looked away, refusing to answer him. He made a sound of exasperation and touched her chin, moving her face to meet his gaze. "Why are you embarrassed?" He repeated, irritated.

She hesitated again and sighed. "I haven't really engaged in this before, Jace. You know that. I'm a virgin."

His eyes widened with surprise. "You've never even experimented with anyone? I would have thought you'd have at least had some fun."

"I had a boyfriend…a couple of years back. Sebastian. He always wanted to do more – pressed for it. He never hurt me; he was kind and a nice guy. But he made it very obvious that he wanted to do…this sort of stuff. I never wanted to."

Jace sat back, watching her, his eyes dark with some undecipherable emotion, his shoulders hard with tension. "Why not?"

"It didn't feel right," she admitted. "I was too young, I guess."

He didn't respond for a while. He just stared at her. "Who called it off?"

Clary flinched, a feeling of unnecessary guilt filtering through her. "Neither of us. He moved to Australia and I never heard from him again. I wasn't upset; I was thinking of ending it anyway. I didn't...feel anything towards him."

He ran a hand through his tousled hair and looked around. There was a moment of silence between them, heavy with unspoken words. Eventually, Jace grinned, his eyes lighting with humor. "You realize we're late for your next class."

She'd completely forgotten about college. Groaning, she lay back on the blanket. "You better cough up on the food front, Herondale. I've missed class for this."

He chuckled and stood to get his jacket, which she hadn't noticed he'd dumped in the corner of the room. He pulled the packet of chips and tossed one towards her. Clary sat on the blanket with Jace, bathing in the afterglow of her orgasm, and feeling the happiest she'd felt in a long time. She could see the appeal for Jace, really, to blow off life and waste it here in this pitiful excuse for a room, the diary of broken dreams and secrets. As they ate, she noticed a small inked tattoo in the corner of his right hand. It was difficult to read – he held the packet with that hand and the angle was all wrong.

"What's that?"

"Hmm?" He followed her gaze to his hand and flexed his fingers subconsciously. "A tattoo."

"What does it say?" She stared at the inked symbol – too small for her to read – inscribed in the crease between his thumb and forefinger.

His eyes met hers. "CH."

"I didn't see it before."

He chuckled darkly. "You didn't see much of that hand, let's be honest."

She motioned for him to go on, feeling her face flame with embarrassed heat at his suggestion. "It means…"

"It's the initials of the only woman I ever loved," he said solemnly, watching her reaction carefully. He flexed his hand once more before picking up his packet of chips again.

Clary swallowed the bitter feeling in her mouth. She had no right to be jealous. No right to complain. So what if there was someone before her? Just because she hadn't had luck in the romance department didn't mean other people hadn't. It didn't stop the rising resentment within her though. It took a lot of effort to repress the emotion. They were a 'no strings' partnership; she had to remember that. "Do you have other tattoos?"

A small smirk twitched at his lips. "Wouldn't you like to know." It wasn't phrased like a question.

Bitterness forgotten, curiosity spiked and she raised an eyebrow. "There aren't any on your chest…"

"Are you sure?"

"I didn't see any when we were in the restroom." Talking about that night with Jace wasn't something she wanted to do, but it was becoming increasingly easier the more she spent time with him. "You had your shirt off then."

"In the dark." He agreed. "You haven't seen me shirtless since."

"So you _do_ have more tattoos?"

He shifted and the sunlight gleamed over his face. Clary sucked in a sharp breath; he looked so much like the angel he wasn't. So ethereal, otherworldly. It was almost like there was a light burning inside him, but it was dimmed by the ghosts of his past.

"I guess you're going to have to stick around to find out." He lay back, looking up. "I should do something with this ceiling."

Clary took that time to stare at his other hand. It was bare. There were no tattoos on his left hand and only those two small initials on his right. _Lucky girl,_ she thought, _to be loved so much that Jace wanted to permanently inscribe her name on his skin._

Realizing he was waiting for an answer, Clary scrambled for something to say. "Like what?"

"I don't know. If I had the chance, I'd probably paint the good in my life. I'm not sure it would totally cover it – there's not much good to paint – but the rest of the room is depressing, I think."

"If you truly thought that, you'd have stopped this long ago."

He whipped his head towards her, his eyes narrowed in thought. He stared at her for a while, pondering her words. Clary didn't think that he'd expected her to say that; he seemed surprised – but not angrily so.

"You're right." He said it as though she'd just gotten a correct answer on a math test.

"This is your venting medium."

"_Good."_ Approval shone through his voice.

"Because you hurt inside."

"Astute of you."

"Something happened – something so terrible that you can't get over it."

"Correct."

"That's why you can't love," Clary continued, ignoring his half-patronizing tone. "You don't think you'll ever love again."

"Five out of five." Jace looked away, his Adam 's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. "Moving on – I can't paint here anymore."

Clary knew what he was doing; he was refusing to divulge in his secrets, refusing to tell her what she so desperately wanted to know. Jace Herondale was so very good at pushing people away.

"Why not?" The thought was heartbreaking. All these years of effort channeled into the art on these walls and for what? If Jace wasn't able to reflect on it – to add to it – what was the point?

"The house has been declared unfit for living," Jace looked around morosely, as though he was saying goodbye to a friend. "By next week, it'll be rubble. Just the ghost of what used to be."

She felt like someone had just punched her in the gut. "No," her voice was strangely empty. "They're demolishing it?"

His golden eyes softened with sadness and his laugh was devoid of emotion. "It kind of reflects my life, really. Me. Broken and useless."

* * *

"For fuck's sake, Clary," Isabelle sighed. "I told you – your arms need to stay tense or you'll end up falling. What do you go and do?"

Clary sat on the floor in a heap beside the pole, her hip smarting from a fresh bruise and a wave of dizziness sweeping over her. She stood and walked off the pain, taking a swig from her water bottle. They were in the same room as the other night, a private room. Below, she could hear the heavy thud of the music pound through the walls, the cheering of drunken teenagers. She was just about to bite back to Isabelle's cold remark when there was a knock at the door.

"That'll be Jonathan." Isabelle stalked across the room to let him in.

A weight dropped in her stomach. "What?"

"You're training with him, today, remember?" Isabelle rolled her eyes and let out a breath in a huff. "You thought I was joking. Cute."

She swung the door open and Jonathan stepped through, cool and unruffled. His gaze instantly found Clary's, his dark, pitiless eyes boring into her. She tried not to look away. There was something so terrifyingly intimidating about Jonathan Morgenstern, something unnerving about the way he looked at her.

"Nice dress." His tone was mocking, amused. She felt like a little girl underneath his all-seeing, knowing gaze. Belittled. Patronized.

She looked down at herself. She was wearing a white dress, slim-fitting, cut to her thighs. The neckline swept low and she suddenly regretted the choice in attire. Not that it mattered – it wouldn't change the fact that Jonathan would be touching her in a moment, anyway. A shudder of revulsion ran over her spine and she stepped away. Isabelle shot her a warning look.

If she didn't do this, she was risking her job. Did she want to lose her job? No. Did she want to lose her half-friends? No. Lose Jace? Definitely not.

Gritting her teeth, she lifted her chin and stared Jonathan down. His smirk widened and he took a step towards her. She fought the urge to back away. This was her job but she also had a choice. She was choosing to do this – she wanted to prove to herself that she wasn't afraid of Jonathan Morgenstern. She didn't want to cower at the sound of his name, like everyone else did in this damn city. She wanted to be stronger.

"You two are like dogs fucking meeting for the first time. Why don't you sniff each other's asses?" Isabelle snapped. Clary thought she wasn't coping very well with the drug outbreak and Alec being a suspect. There were bags under her eyes and she looked as though she'd spent the day crying. Her mood wasn't particularly uplifting, though Clary couldn't blame her. Her tone was now almost always hostile and the crease between her eyebrows showed of the stress in her mind.

"You want me to sit?" Jonathan eyed the chair, his gaze mocking. He was making fun of them.

"No." Clary growled when Isabelle said, "yes."

Jonathan crossed his arms, amusement glinting in his black eyes. "This is all very fun. Tell me, which of you crave my touch the most? I can see it in your eyes…both of you. The desire to want what you shouldn't. Forbidden fruit, as they say."

Both the girls scoffed derisively and Isabelle took the opportunity to switch on the music. Jonathan looked at Isabelle with his hands stretched out, his eyebrow raised. Clary read the question on his face: _am I allowed to touch her? _Clary had the sense he was only asking permission to avoid being called a cheat. He would touch her anyway, she knew.

"This is going to be hard enough as it is…" Isabelle sighed, glaring at Clary and gesturing for Jonathan to go on ahead. He walked towards her and suddenly she felt like a trapped animal, like a cornered puppy. She wanted to squeeze her eyes shut and pretend this wasn't happening. Instead, she kept her chin high, tapped into some almost non-existent confidence and steadied her panicked breathing.

"Clary, you suck." Isabelle noted as Jonathan placed his hand on her waist, pulling her close. Clary's body was tense and unmoving; she wasn't sure where to start. "What are you, a fucking rock? Do something."

She stepped out of his grasp and watched as his gaze darkened with fury. "Give me a minute," she said automatically. She closed her eyes and opened them again.

"What's the problem?" Jonathan stepped towards her again, a challenging step. She felt her throat constrict and she looked away. Why was she so frightened by him? It was an instinctual fear. Something she couldn't explain.

Isabelle waited for her to regain her composure and then started the music again. Clary set her jaw. _Stop being a baby,_ she thought, as she placed the palm of her hand against Jonathan's chest. He wore a black shirt, fitted to his body, and it stood in stark contrast to his white hair, artfully tousled. His face was cold, his eyes emotionless, but his tight grip on her spoke possessive legions.

"You don't want to play, little girl?" He said softly but she didn't respond. "You don't want to have some fun with me? I've heard you're a lot of fun."

She ignored him. The quicker she got this over with, the better. Besides, she was going to have to do this with a lot more men, some perhaps worse than even Jonathan. The thought was repulsive; this definitely wasn't her favorite part of the job.

She took a step closer to Jonathan, ignoring the unease churning in her stomach. She clutched at his collar, reaching up to whisper in his ear. "I can play games all night."

He reacted immediately, his hands reaching for her body, his eyes lighting with the challenge of the power play. She danced out of his reach and watched as the barely controlled anger played out on his face. Most people found Jonathan Morgenstern difficult to understand, and he was, to some extent. Right now, however, Clary had never read anyone easier. He wanted control. He wanted ownership. He wanted power. He wanted to wield this situation to make it his, to have some effect on her instead of the other way around. She was determined to not let that happen. This was a game with a deadly result and she had to make sure she came out on top.

"Teasing, are we?" He reached for her hand to pull her back and she let him. His hand moved up to her shoulder, his fingers digging into the hollows of her collarbone. His other hand tightened around her wrist and she fought the urge to wince as pain shot up her arm. "You don't play fair, Fray."

Jonathan's scent washed over her as she pressed her body against him – red wine and artificial vanilla – mixed with the underlying scent of blood, coppery and metallic. Being this close to him made her feel uncomfortable – and not in the good way that Jace did. She wanted to step away, to run from him, but she didn't. She held her ground and bumped him with her hip, pinning him against the wall. His eyes widened marginally but then narrowed again, watching her shrewdly.

"Playing fair is overrated." Clary murmured, being careful to let her lips trace over the line of his jaw. She pushed the thought of Jace away – they weren't in a relationship and besides, this was her job. So why did she feel so goddamn guilty?

"I agree with _that_ wholeheartedly." He purred, his tone low. He placed his hand at the small of her back, pulling her flush against him. "The world is desperate to be so fair and equal. There's no winning where that's concerned, right?"

"You don't always need to win." The words slipped out of her mouth almost involuntarily and she wished she could pluck them out of the air. She wasn't supposed to be angering Jonathan, she was supposed to be seducing him.

"You can't honestly enjoy losing?" His voice was disbelieving.

"Losing is good if it benefits someone else." _Shut up, Clary, _she thought, _shut up. _"It's kind. Selfless, even."

"Here I thought you were different, Clarissa. Don't look out for others – it only makes you _weak_." Jonathan's lips brushed her throat and she tried not to shudder. The desire she felt wasn't anything close to what she felt with Jace, but she had to admit, Jonathan knew how to tempt girls. She hated him – or at least, she thought she did – but right now, she'd never been so drawn to him. He was attractive; an idiot would deny it. And the way his eyes undressed her lured her in, but not in a way that made her feel entirely pleasured or wanted. She was drawn to him the same way a rabbit was drawn to a fox's den. Fear mixed with that underlying excitement and the buzz of danger. Adrenaline pumped through her veins, mingling with the anxiety in her stomach.

"Having weaknesses makes you human." She said quietly, letting her lips barely brush his temple. He dipped his head down to kiss the skin of her bared shoulder. They were locked in a dangerous dance, though this time, Clary knew what would happen if she lost.

"Having weaknesses makes you susceptible to being beaten." Jonathan corrected, his tone dark. "_I won't be beaten_."

She had a feeling they were talking about more than the charity of the human race. "You'll meet your match, someday, Morgenstern." She let her hand drift over his collarbone, down the planes of his carved chest and rest at the waistband of his belted pants. His eyes followed her every movement, calculating. She wanted to know what he was thinking; he was so difficult to guess. She was almost enjoying this – torturing Jonathan Morgenstern, toying with him.

"Are you threatening me?"

"I don't make threats I can't carry through."

"_Wise_." He whispered, his cool breath fanning over her cheek. "You're very stubborn. Very sure of your own thoughts."

"If you can't be sure of yourself, who can you be sure of?"

He chuckled darkly, running a hand over her hip, resting at the top of her thigh. "We are more alike than you'd care to admit."

The thought jolted her and she froze momentarily, her hands resting against his hard abdomen. "I'm nothing like you." She could feel his muscles contract at his touch, feel the ridges of his abs beneath his shirt.

"Hmmm…" He leaned in, and planted a soft, possessive kiss against her throat. She tipped her head back, almost against her will, and his hand cupped her neck, his fingers digging into the flesh beneath her jaw. This was a whole new level of controlling – at any moment, he could hinder her breathing, crush her windpipe. She didn't put it past him, either. "I disagree."

She was in a dangerous position, giving him access to her neck like this. She tried to step out of his grip, but he held tight and strong, his black eyes claiming hers. "Perhaps if you cared to know me as well as you know my brother, you'd understand the similarities between you and I."

"Why would I bother?" She growled; she'd almost given up on seducing him. It was almost like the other way around, like the roles had reversed. Jonathan Morgenstern wouldn't be seduced unless he wanted to be. He was in charge of every situation; he manipulated people well enough to gain power over anyone. She understood just how he did that, now.

He didn't answer her question. Instead, he leaned in, his face swimming in front of her vision. She glanced to the side, hoping to see Isabelle, but the girl was gone. They were alone in this room, all by themselves. Fear drove inside like a knife to the heart. Dread pulsed when she felt his hips brush against hers. He was hard, the material of his pants stretched taut over his bulge. He wanted her. But she didn't want him. And they were alone in this room and she had no one to help her get out of this situation. His hand gripped her throat tightly, only just allowing her enough air to breathe. His other hand ran along the line of her groin, dangerously close to areas she'd only ever let Jace touch. She couldn't let him go there. He was so very close. Too close.

"You should consider this tactic," Jonathan breathed, his tongue wetting his bottom lip as he flashed a victorious smirk at her. His black eyes flared with malicious amusement and she was suddenly overcome with that feeling of familiarity, that feeling of knowing him before. From another time, perhaps, another life. "Consider this: it is better to let someone think you have lost than to let them believe you have won."

She understood. He'd had control of this situation all along. He'd walked in the room, knowing how to get to her, knowing how to manipulate her. Instead of exploiting her directly, he'd let her think she was in charge, let her think she had the upper hand, and then annihilated her when she was at her weakest. It wasn't fair, but then Jonathan Morgenstern wasn't a fair man. The hatred she felt for him earlier was nothing compared to the hatred she felt for him now. Hatred and fear. Before her stood a man who'd stop at nothing to get what he wanted, someone who lived by no rules, no laws. A man who did what he wanted, when he wanted, with no care as to who it hurt or impacted. He was Jonathan Morgenstern, selfish, cruel and cold.

She understood all this seconds before his lips crashed against hers, claiming her mouth violently with his own.

* * *

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	10. Moths to the Flame

**R&R? Enjoy!**

* * *

He tasted of blood. Clary stood, shocked, as Jonathan Morgenstern kissed her roughly, his tongue pressing against her lips, pushing for access. She let him in, out of morbid curiosity than anything else, and his tongue caressed the inside of her mouth, possessive and dominant. His hands moved over her body, skimming the arc of her breasts, down to the swell of her hips, to the hidden curve of her inner thigh, caressing assertively up to the warmth of her core. She jerked in shock beneath his touch and he shifted his grip back to her neck and shoulder, his fingers pinching at her skin with the force of his hold on her, keeping her still. The pain shook her out of her frozen horror.

She pushed at his chest and he lingered at her mouth – just to prove he could, Clary thought – before withdrawing. He didn't step away though, and the sickening mix of vanilla and blood wrapped around her as his black eyes bored into hers, victorious and smug.

"Looks like you lost, Morgenstern." Isabelle's voice rang out across the silent room, puncturing their heavy breathing. She must have just returned. Jonathan's eyes flickered towards her lazily before returning to Clary, watching her, monitoring her reaction with a cool, predatory leer on his face.

She didn't give him the answer he wanted; she kept her features neutral and felt a pang of dark satisfaction when he seemed almost disappointed in her response. She felt physically sick. There was something so wrong about Jonathan Morgenstern, about his dark claim on her; something she couldn't put her finger on.

"You lost." Clary said eventually, lifting her chin defiantly. She could still taste his bitter lips on hers and she ignored the turning of her stomach as he gripped her waist to draw her close, his fingers skimming the underside of her breast. Her skin broke out in ripples of goosebumps at his touch and a pang of desire shot straight to her core. She gritted her teeth, disgusted with herself. The attraction she felt for him didn't touch the attraction she felt for Jace, but she still felt frustration towards Jonathan for igniting the feeling within her. She hated him. He was manipulative and harsh, regardless of his innate ability to draw women to him.

His lips brushed her ear, his cool breath fanning over her neck. "I _won_." He whispered knowingly and a shiver ran up her spine. He knew what he was doing; knew the effect he had on her. Revolted, she stepped away.

This was a game Clary wasn't willing to play anymore. Alongside the crazy mix of repulsion, hatred and desire she felt for Jonathan Morgenstern, the underlying vibe of familiarity pulsed, like a nagging hitch in her thoughts. She considered asking him if they had met before, but that would just be playing into his hands; she'd be giving herself away for him to manipulate as he pleased. So, instead, she turned and stalked to the door, ignoring Isabelle calling her name.

She could feel Jonathan's heavy gaze on her back, and she fought the urge to flip him off.

"I always get what I want, Clary Fray," he called. She stopped but didn't turn around. She was afraid of what she would see on his cold face. "I _never_ lose. If I want something, I'll get it."

_Something, _she thought,_ not someone. _"I'm sure you will," she said. "The question is whether or not it'll want _you_ back."

With that, she stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

* * *

Alec surveyed the club from behind the bar, a gnawing feeling of panic and anxiety settling over him. He could sense more than see Magnus's presence, leaning against the staff door beside the bar, watching him with that green-gold, worried gaze of his. Alec didn't talk to him; he didn't know what to say. The calamity of the last few days had taken its toll on him and instead of confiding with his boyfriend, he'd shut down, refusing to talk to even Isabelle. Alec watched the confederates – teenagers working with the police to bait criminals – move around the club with a slow, over-casual ease. To him, they stuck out like a sore thumb but he supposed they were doing what they were ordered to do: acting as clueless victims in the hope to lure the criminal in.

"Mr. Lightwood," a man's voice greeted beside him. Alec turned towards the newcomer, ignoring Magnus's uncomfortable shift in posture at seeing them talk together. _Jealousy,_ Alec thought wryly. Magnus had nothing to worry about – he was all Alec ever needed.

"Detective Garroway." Alec acknowledged the leader of the investigation. He didn't particularly like Luke Garroway, but he respected him. The man practically ran the city against Valentine; he led the Guardians – an organization that consisted of the police force and other volunteers such as the confederates – whose sole aim was to protect the people of the city from criminals and shaded masterminds and dodgy blackmailers. They worked against Valentine and Jonathan Morgenstern – though not openly – company the Lightwoods were well-known for keeping, hence why Lucian Garroway and Alec Lightwood maintained a cool, mutual dislike for each other. So long as Alec wasn't behind bars for a crime he wasn't committing, he decided to refrain from outright hostility, figuring Garroway was his only hope of proving his innocence.

"There has been no activity tonight."

Alec clenched his jaw. "I suppose that is not the good news you pretend it to be."

Luke grimaced, his blue eyes hard. "It doesn't look good for you. In fact, it's evidence that supports your guilt."

"Yet you've found none to support my innocence?" Alec couldn't keep the sneer from his tone. "Shocking, really, Detective. You've lost your touch."

Luke ignored Alec's jibe, running a hand through his curly dark hair. "Jonathan Morgenstern is working tonight?"

Alec bristled at the mention of his friend's name. "What of it?"

"Any suspicious behavior from him, recently?"

Alec clenched his jaw, struggling to keep his voice low to avoid the customers overhearing them. The music was loud and concealed most of their quiet words, so he wasn't too concerned. "Don't you receive training to ensure you don't let personal opinions of others cloud your judgment when conducting an investigation? I'm sure there's something in your code of conduct prohibiting accusation without evidence."

"There is," Luke's eyes flickered to him, "but if it were truly upheld, you and I wouldn't be here now."

Alec suppressed the anger rising within him. "If you're so worried, you'll be happy to find that he's just finished up training with Clarissa, so you can talk to him yourself. I'm sure he'll be thrilled to make your acquaintance."

Luke jerked, casting Alec a sidelong glance. "Clarissa? Clarissa Fray?"

Alec narrowed his eyes, a shiver of foreboding running down his spine. "You know her?"

Luke pressed his lips together. "Heard the name. She's associated often with this place, I'm newly discovering."

"She works here," Alec spoke slowly, his words stretched as though he was talking to a child. He didn't care that Luke was twice his age, didn't care that he was the very man that could save him from prosecution. Luke Garroway was pissing him off, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to pretend otherwise.

"Interesting." Luke's lips pressed together in a thin line. "No, I will not be needing an audience with young Jonathan Morgenstern – at least, not tonight."

Alec made a noise of annoyance and stepped away from the bar, leaving Luke Garroway alone. He made his way to Magnus, trying to shed some of his foul mood so he didn't upset him; Magnus hated his recent misery and never failed to complain about it.

"Jealousy doesn't become you, Magnus," Alec said, reaching out to twine his hand in his. Magnus smiled, surprised at his gesture of affection. Alec wasn't very good at showing his emotions – he rarely made the first move. Magnus drew him close, and concealed beneath the smoke and darkness of the club, cupped his face to kiss him.

"Frustrated is more the word, Alexander," Magnus muttered against his lips, the sound of a complaint in his voice. Alec smiled, parting Magnus's mouth with his own. "It's been _days _since we've spent any real time together."

"I've been busy," Alec told him, a hint of seriousness in his otherwise mocking tone. "I can't always be there to fulfill your animalistic needs, especially when I have a prison sentence looming over my head."

"Detective Garroway is the best the city has; if anyone can prove your innocence, it's him." Magnus's fingers trailed down Alec's spine and the boy shivered, a feeling of surprised pleasure shooting over him. He didn't think he could long for intimacy whilst feeling this constant pressure and stress, but there it was, the telltale twinge of arousal in his abdomen, the shift in his breathing pattern, telling otherwise. "Besides, he likes you."

"No, he doesn't."

"He does," Magus pressed. "He likes Isabelle, too; he thinks you're good kids."

"If he thought that, my name wouldn't be on the suspect list." Alec tried to keep the bitterness from his tone. "We don't like each other. Does that ease your envious mind?"

Magnus chuckled, leaning in to kiss Alec's hairline. The sound of Magnus's laugh uncoiled some tension within Alec, and he relaxed slightly in his touch.

"I wish we could go to your office." Magnus murmured, dark desire weaving through his words.

Alec raised an eyebrow, brushing a speck of green glitter from Magnus's shoulder. "Oh, really."

Magnus's eyes lit with amusement and lust, a salacious grin twisting at his lips. He dipped his head to press his lips against Alec's ear, whispering, "I want to have you under me, Alexander. I want to feel you _writhe_ beneath me. It's been too long."

Alec's breath hitched, his hand freezing on Magnus's chest, and he forgot about his problems for a moment, forgot about the crowd of customers in his club, forgot about the confederates, the investigation, the deaths. He just saw Magnus; he was consumed by his heated gaze, by his touch. Alec reached up to kiss Magnus again, opening his mouth to allow him access. Magnus's tongue massaged his own, his hand smoothing over Alec's spine, resting at the small of his back, his fingers dipping under his waistband. Alec could feel it – the burn of desire in his bloodstream. Like a chemical produced by Magnus's touch. Alec moaned, almost against his will, when they shifted their weight so their hips brushed, the friction of Magnus's hardened erection pressing against his. The sound that escaped his lips made him step back, and he ran a shaky hand through his dark hair, glaring at Magnus accusingly.

"This isn't exactly professional," he said disapprovingly, moistening his lips with his tongue. Magnus only grinned guiltily, spreading his hands in a half-shrug. A mischievous glint lit his eyes and he straightened his jacket, walking by Alec to the office.

"Later, then," Magnus murmured as he passed him. "I'll have my fix of you, Alexander Lightwood."

Despite his worries, Alec found his lips stretching into a pleased grin, a feeling of anticipation stirring his stomach. Only Magnus could do this to him – eradicate all other problems until only one remained: whether or not he'd be able to keep his raging hormones in check for the rest of the night.

He wasn't so sure.

* * *

In the shadow of the following day's dusk, Isabelle kept along the streetlamps that lined the sidewalk, refusing to be caught in darkness. The city was not to be trusted, especially recently, and the nervousness she felt in her stomach so often these last few days was amplified by the eerie silence of the streets, by the vulnerability of her loneliness. She turned the corner to a block of flats and pressed on the buzzer, stealing a wary glance behind her; she was being paranoid.

"Hello?" The voice did not belong to Simon. Isabelle winced slightly and pressed the microphone button.

"Hi, I'm looking for Simon Lewis?"

"Yeah, I'm Jordan, his flat-mate," the boy explained. "Who are you?"

"Isabelle Lightwood – can you just let me in? He knows who I am."

Jordan paused slightly. "Talk about impatient," he grumbled eventually, but Isabelle heard the click of the door being unlocked. She thanked him – if a little shortly – and rushed inside, hating how unprotected she felt all alone on the streets. This was going to her head. The crimes, the deaths, the drugs. No one was out to target her – she was safe.

She made her way up the stairs to the first floor, opening the door onto the hallway. The place was plain and simple – perfect for two college lads bunking it down whilst studying. As she made her way up the passage, someone slipped out of Simon's door. Dark haired and tanned, the boy was definitely attractive. Normally, she would have flipped her hair and offered a flirtatious smile, but she didn't feel like it. She didn't have the energy to do much recently.

She thought he would have smiled and looked her up and down like most boys did when they caught her eye, but he didn't. He scowled at her, outright hatred in his brown eyes. The loathing was so strong that she almost stepped back. "What's your problem?" She said, almost without thinking.

The boy stepped towards her, invading her personal space, his muscular frame tensing instantly. She backed up to a wall, his looming, unfamiliar presences scaring her slightly. She was used to domineering men – manipulated them, even – but that didn't mean she liked the idea of being cornered, defenseless and vulnerable.

"Listen, bitch," he snarled and Isabelle flinched, not expecting the venom in his voice. She recognized his voice from the telecom earlier; this was Jordan, Simon's roommate. "I know what you are, what you do. I know your over-used, whorish ass has been assigned to Simon and I know what you're here for. It's not my business to know who he sleeps with but be aware of this: he's not stopped thinking about you since the two of you met. I know he feels something for you. I know he's falling for you. So go ahead – go ahead and take what doesn't belong to you, go ahead and drive that knife of betrayal into his back.

"Just understand this: if he falls in love with you and you hurt him, expect some fucking shit from me. He deserves much better than a _cheap whore._ He's my best friend. If you hurt him, _I will hunt you down._ Heed my words, Lightwood."

Stunned, she stood there, watching as Jordan walked away from her, slinging his jacket on, pulling his hood over his face. She knew Jordan Kyle was close with Simon – they were both well acquainted with Jonathan Morgenstern. Dimly, she registered that Jordan knew about her and hadn't told the truth to Simon; Jonathan must have shut him up. The thought pained her, for some reason. She didn't like lying to Simon but the alternative was too painful to consider. Strange, that she was so afraid of Simon's reaction upon learning the truth. What did it matter to her? It shouldn't, but that didn't change the fact that bile rose in her throat when his betrayed face swam in her vision, his eyes disgusted and judgmental.

The door clicked shut at the end of the corridor and Isabelle stood there for another moment, trying to calm her irregular breathing. She kept replaying Jordan's words in her mind. _He's not stopped thinking about you since the two of you met._

Yes, it hurt. Sucking in a deep breath, she turned to make her way back down the hallway, each step feeling like a mile as she walked away from Simon's room.

"Isabelle?"

Cringing, she stopped and turned to face him. He stood in the doorway of his room, wearing a white vest and loose-fitting pants. He pushed his glasses up his nose, a confused frown on his face. Isabelle felt a small smile twitch at her lips. Her chest ached at the sight of him, gangly and unassuming, naïve and innocent.

_I know he feels something for you._

"I didn't think you were in," she lied easily, pushing the sound of Jordan's voice away for a moment.

"You didn't even knock."

"Jordan said…" she jerked her hand over her shoulder but the knowing look in his eyes silenced her. "I didn't think you'd want to see me," she said eventually, dropping her arms and biting her lip. Guilt wormed inside her, guilt at what she was doing. She wanted to tell him the truth. She wanted to tell him who she was, but she was terrified of his rejection. He was someone she'd started to trust – surprising as it was. He was someone she had come to rely on. He was kind and trustworthy and compassionate and sweet. He was everything all her other clients hadn't been. He was different.

She didn't want to lie to him. But she didn't want to leave him more.

"I'll always want to see you." He flushed, as though he didn't mean to say the words, and looked down at the ground. "Do you want to come in?"

She nodded and he stepped aside to let her in the flat. He took her coat from her and hung it on the hooks beside the door. He darted around, picking up stray socks, magazines and other questionable things that are only ever found in a flat shared by two college boys. She laughed at his attempt and he stopped, frowning, a sock dangling from his hand.

"What?" He asked, innocently.

"I don't care how tidy your place is," she told him, running a hand through her dark hair. It fell in loose waves over her shoulder; it was the first time she'd worn it down since everything had blown up with Alec and Heavenly Fire. She'd even bothered to put on a dab of makeup, though she looked nowhere near as put-together as she usually did.

"It's polite, though," he mumbled, throwing the sock in the washing machine. "Do you want something to drink?"

"Just water, please."

He reached for a glass from the cupboard and filled it, handing it to her. Isabelle was surprised to see that there was a slight tremor to his hand, and his eyes were wider than usual. Was he nervous?

"Are you alright?" She asked, taking the glass before he dropped it.

Simon nodded, smiling shyly. "I should be asking you the same thing."

"I'm not alright," she told him honestly, taking a sip.

"How's Alec?"

"Same. Although more composed than me, ironically." Isabelle took a deep breath. "No surprise – Alec has always been stronger than me. The confederates have been posted in the club. Nothing's come of it. I'm starting to think there's a good chance that Alec will…that he'll be arrested for this."

Simon bit his lip, watching her carefully. "You still don't know who it is? Who's framing Alec?"

She shook her head, a weight dropping in her stomach. "They must _hate_ us."

"I don't understand how anyone can hate you," Simon said immediately. "You're, like, perfect."

Isabelle's head shot up and she stared at him as he flushed again, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "You don't have a filter over that mouth, do you?"

He turned away from her, cheeks blazing. "I…I'm sorry…I don't think – I just say what's on my mind."

She chuckled, reaching for him. Her hand rested on his arm as she turned him to face her. His brown eyes were torn with embarrassment "It's okay. It's nice to know what people really think, sometimes. It's better than lies."

_And yet here I am,_ she thought, _lying to his face._

She swallowed the acrid taste in her mouth. "But I'm far from perfect, Simon."

"I don't think so," he said carefully, his brown eyes scanning her face. "I don't see flaws when I look at you."

Heat rose to her cheeks and she turned away, embarrassed and humbled. "I can't believe you just said that."

"It's true," Simon pressed. "You're…" he struggled with words for a moment. "I don't care how cheesy or ridiculous this sounds but you're like a massive ball of light, like fire. You're so beautiful and confident and caring and passionate. And I'm just me. I'm like…the moth. Dangerously attracted to you. Cliché, I know, but it's useless anyway. I'm not good enough for someone like you."

Stunned, Isabelle couldn't think of much to say. Her voice was quiet when she finally spoke. "Why wouldn't you be good enough?" Alongside the heady mix of embarrassment, humility and pleasure she felt at his awkward and uncomfortable speech, she also felt a rush of adrenaline. Something she'd never felt before, like electric through her veins, ignited by his words.

"Because I'm just me. A dork interested in comic books and _Dungeons and Dragons_ and I'm socially awkward and clumsy and not good-looking, at all. And you…" He took a deep breath, gesturing to her with wide eyes. Isabelle shook her head when he couldn't seem to finish his sentence.

"We barely know each other, Simon," she told him gently. "How could you possibly be attracted to me?"

"I don't know – I…" He paused, rubbing the back of his neck. "Because every time I see you, I feel a little more alive. Less boring. When I'm with you – even for a short while – I'm not Simon the gamer anymore. I'm Simon…the-someone-else. I'm whoever I want to be. And every time we meet, you surprise me – like when you found the coding error on my game, which, by the way, I still have yet to find out how you spotted it. Like that time in the coffee shop where you hugged me in front of all of those people even though I can see you're not very good at emotional stuff. Like when we first met, and you tried on my glasses, and told me I was blind-"

"You _are_ blind."

"What I mean is – I'm just an ordinary boy. But you make me feel like more than that." He let out a deep breath, his cheeks flaming, and his hair tousled where he'd ran his fingers through it in frustration several times throughout his speech.

She felt a thrill of happiness jolt through her and tears of pleasure stung her eyes. She blinked them away rapidly. No one had ever said this to her before. The kind of things he was saying – they were the kind of things boys only said in movies, when it was read from a script written by a romantic, female screenwriter – not spoken from the heart of college boy who'd never been in a relationship before.

He bit his lip. "Why are you here? I mean, here in this flat, wasting your time on me. What do you want?"

Surprised and a little hurt, she almost stepped back. "You don't think I could find you attractive, at all?"

When he spoke, his voice was a mumble, and his gaze was fixed to the cupboard behind her, his eyes sad. "I don't understand why you would."

Isabelle had the feeling that he didn't have many people compliment him often; he seemed to have such a low self-esteem, be so timid and unsure. "I can't guarantee a speech that can rival yours," she warned, smirking. "That was a pretty epic speech."

"Humor me." He still didn't look at her.

"I'm here because I want to be," she said, touching his arm. "And because you're there for me when I need you most. Isn't that enough?" She approached him, stepping carefully, as though she was walking towards a wounded or scared animal. When she spoke, her voice was gentle, yet her words were harsh. "Do I have to know the little things about you to want to spend time with you? Should I start taking notes? Learning your bad habits? Why do I have to prove myself?"

"People say one thing when often they mean the other." Simon said, and his voice was hollow. "I need to know you want to be here, and aren't just…I don't know…_mocking_ me."

Another pang of guilt hit her stomach and she swallowed. The words she spoke were words of truth but the reasons behind them were a lie. "I want to be here."

He looked at her, surprise lighting his miserable eyes. He dipped his head slightly, his eyes scanning her face, lingering on her eyes and then her lips. She stared at him for a long time, and she found that she did notice the little things. The way his glasses slid down his face, the way one of his eyes was a shade darker than the other, the way his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed. She noticed the dimples in his cheeks, the stray lock of hair falling over his eye, the shadows of tiredness under his eyes. She noticed the little things and she found that they only improved her opinion of him, only strengthened the affection she felt for him.

"What are you thinking?" Isabelle asked quietly, her hand still on his arm.

He didn't respond.

"Tell me."

He hesitated only a moment later, before his gaze flickered back up to her eyes and rested there. "I was thinking that I'd really like to kiss you. Right now."

"But?" She could hear it, unspoken.

"But I don't want to scare you away."

She grinned and latched onto his shirt, pulling him so close that their foreheads touched. "I'm not easily scared. I'm a strong girl."

"I know," he whispered, his breath fanning across her lips. "I forgot to mention that in my pretty epic speech."

"It _was_ an epic speech," she confirmed, brushing her lips against his, barely. She heard his sharp intake of breath. "You didn't need it."

"Can't you just kiss me now?" There was an impatient edge to his tone, almost nervousness. Her words were making him jittery.

She didn't. "You've never kissed anyone before?" She could sense it by the edgy shift of his gaze, and the clenching of his hands at his sides. "You're not in your comfort zone."

"No," he groaned. "Are you going to make fun of me?"

"Why do you always think that?" She moved closer, pressing her body against his. She ran a hand down his arm, resting at his wrist. She could feel his rapid pulse against her fingertips, and she shifted his hand to her waist. "Hold me. Touch me."

His breath faltered at her words. "Where?"

"Anywhere," she murmured, and she pressed her lips to his.

He tasted like he smelled; of boy and man mixed into a heady taste that sent Isabelle's head spinning. Her blood sang in her veins as he drew her close, his fingers touching the side of her face gently, tipping her head up to his. He wasn't a bad kisser – slightly unsure of himself but Isabelle thought that would come with practice. She was surprised, actually, at how good it felt. She had kissed so many guys that the act had become slightly boring for her now. But Simon made it feel different. He made it feel new again. She loved the sensation, and she ran her hands through his soft, dark hair, parting his lips with her tongue. He gasped as she explored his mouth and she swallowed the sound, a feeling of elation settling over her. She was his first kiss. She didn't know why that bothered her so much, didn't know why it made her feel so light inside. She only knew that right here, right now, she was the only thing that mattered to Simon; the thought was addicting. She'd never been special to someone before. Not like this.

"Isabelle…" he groaned eventually, the sound torn. "Iz, we need to stop."

She pulled back, biting her lip. His eyes darkened when he took her face in and he turned away, swallowing.

"What's wrong?" She asked, running a hand through her hair to try and reduce the tangles.

He looked down at himself, flushing heavily. "I'm not very good at self-control; I'm a little…um…"

She understood and a small giggle escaped her lips. She placed a hand over her mouth, halting the sound. What was wrong with her? "I'm sorry – I'm not mocking you, I swear."

His expression was partly appalled, partly amused. "What are you laughing at?"

"I…I've never met anyone so…unfiltered. You just say what you think but as soon as it comes to intimacy, you clam up. It's endearing, actually."

His cheeks reddened further and Isabelle fought the urge to trace her fingers over his warm skin. He spluttered unintelligible words and she laughed again, pressing a chaste kiss to the hollow of his throat. His arms automatically wrapped around her shoulders and she rested her head against his chest, inhaling the scent of mixed spices and fall that always seemed to surround him. It was a wonderful scent, comforting.

"Can I tell you something?" Isabelle asked quietly, a sudden feeling of shyness settling over her.

"Yeah."

"You're a good kisser," she responded, refusing to look him in the eye. "Inexperienced, but good."

He tensed. "My inexperience is kind of a touchy subject. Embarrassing, really."

She smiled against his neck, her lips brushing the stretch of skin beneath his ear. "I guess we're going to have to do something about that."

He froze and she lifted her head to gauge his reaction. He seemed uncomprehending, even a little anxious. He was so easy to read, adorably so. She tipped her face up to his, her hand reaching to the back of his head. As their lips met once more, Isabelle h to read, adorably so. She tipped her face up to his, her hand reaching to the back of his head. As their lips met, she hummed in contentment. He was good for her; comforting and calm, shy and unassuming. He was the dousing water to her raging flame.

She only hoped this feeling would last, and not be punctured by her chaotic web of lies.

* * *

Jonathan tossed his used condom into the trash, hearing his phone chime as a new text message came through. The girl sniveled behind him in the corner of the restroom, distraught that he was no longer interested in her. He didn't want her number, he didn't want to take her home. She was just another nobody, someone he could control.

"So, that's it?" The girl asked him, her voice breaking through his foggy musings. He needed another drink. "You're just going to walk away."

"It looks that way, doesn't it?" Jonathan's voice was cold, unruffled. He didn't bother turning around.

"You're not even going to stay and buy me a drink?" She asked him, a flirtatious edge entering her tone. Jonathan's lip curled in disgust. He'd already had her – what fun was she now? "I don't even know your name."

"Perhaps if you were more interesting…Maybe you'll strike lucky and I'll pass you on to my friend." Jonathan sneered. "He's been a little uptight lately – he needs a good, mindless fuck."

She made a sound of disbelief and Jonathan shrugged his shoulders, uncaring. He walked out of the restroom, spotting Jace enter the bar just as he read his text.

"Nice of you to finally join me, brother." Jonathan slid into the seat beside him, necking the drink Jace had ordered for him. "I was rapidly getting bored."

Jace pressed his lips together to hide his smirk. "Alec was complaining."

"Alec always complains."

He grimaced, tapping his fingers on the table. "He's got reason to."

Jonathan bristled, scowling. "He'll get over his problems; we all do."

Jace hesitated, sucking in a sharp breath at Jonathan's words – he'd understood the hidden meaning behind them. "I suppose you're right," he mumbled, holding up the shot the barmaid delivered to them. The boys always coaxed the best service from the staff. "To you, friend."

Jonathan smirked and held up his own shot. "And to you."

Together, they downed their second shot.

"I'm lighting one up." Jonathan said, his tone husky from the alcohol burning his throat. He pulled out a joint and lit it, placing it between his lips with the air of nonchalance. Jace watched him expectantly, knocking back another drink. Jonathan was keeping count – that was his third drink and he'd only been here for twenty minutes. Amused, Jonathan took a long drag before handing the joint to Jace.

"I'm surprised we've not been kicked out already." Jace said, inhaling the scent of marijuana. "The last time we were here... didn't we tear down that massive tapestry thing? And break a window."

"I just fucked the owner's daughter," Jonathan jerked a thumb over his shoulder lazily. "She won't let her father kick us out yet. Besides, we did more than that, my friend. You remember the girl that climbed on the bar and screamed at us to stop?"

"Yeah, she was a severe case of jailbait." Jace handed the joint back to Jonathan, smirking at the memory. It had been months ago but they had torn this place up pretty badly. Jonathan wasn't one for caring about other people but he knew that Jace felt a little guilty about the whole affair. That was Jace, though. No matter how much Jonathan tried to drive it out of him, he always had a flair for emotions, a touch of sensitivity that Jonathan couldn't quell.

Jonathan tipped his head back and chuckled at the recollection of the seventeen-year-old girl who'd clambered onto the bar to threaten the two of them with the police. Jace had happily knocked her feet out from under her and Jonathan had caught her, taking her into his lustful arms, playing his charms until she was won over. It wasn't hard, either. A few compliments, a little dash of boasting, a quick fuck and the girl was quickly quieted. Like always, Jonathan and Jace had gotten away, laughing at the sounds of the police sirens wailing behind them.

"She was a fiery fucker." Jace said, waving over to the bartender again. The woman scowled but poured out two more drinks – whiskies, Jonathan thought.

"Easily tamed, however," Jonathan mused and Jace glanced at him.

"So you _did_ fuck her."

"Of course I did. I wasn't going to miss an opportunity like that." Jonathan squinted, trying to remember that particular girl. "She was entertaining; the girl knew what to do with her hands."

Jace looked away, but not before Jonathan caught the rolling of his golden eyes.

"What?" Jonathan snapped, only half-hostile. "Don't claim innocence – you've taken many women, Herondale."

Jace hesitated and then shrugged. "I can't deny that."

The bartender arrived with the whiskies and Jonathan beckoned for her to come closer. She approached warily, noticing their empty glasses on the table. They were very close to drunkenness, and both were high, the scent of marijuana swirling obviously around them.

Jonathan took another drag of the joint, handing it over to Jace. He didn't exhale the smoke, but only beckoned to the bartender. She was hot – her breasts were unfortunately covered by her uniform – and there was something about her innocence that struck Jonathan. He loved innocent girls, loved to have the power to take that innocence away.

When the girl was close enough, Jonathan's hand snaked out to her hip, pulling her closer. He pressed his lips to hers, exhaling the smoke into her mouth. He pulled back quickly, watching, amused, as she coughed and spluttered, shooting him daggers. She didn't dare hit him, though Jonathan knew she wanted to try.

"Well, that was fun." He said mildly, turning away from her. He downed his drink and faced Jace, a roguish glint in his black eyes. When he spoke, his voice was light and carefree, unbothered by the chaos he was planning to wreck on the place. "Let's have more. Come on, brother." He stood and brushed the empty glasses off the table, smashing them over the floor. Jace lurched out of his seat, swaying slightly. He staggered into Jonathan's side and he caught him, pushing him upright with a murmur of hilarity. "You've had a lot to drink, brother. You better hope you can still run fast."

"I can get my ass out of here pretty quick, Morgenstern. Don't doubt me."

"Oh, _never_." Jonathan smirked, watching as the waitress recovered from her initial shock and began to yell at them. He pulled his lighter from his pocket, flicking the flame thoughtfully. The desire to cause harm and damage sang within his veins, travelling with the adrenaline in his bloodstream.

The girl backed away, horrified, as he tipped the lighter towards the table. The spilled alcohol glittered under the flame and Jonathan and Jace watched, transfixed, as the flame almost touched the liquid.

"You'll set fire to the place." Jace said, though his tone was casual, almost unbothered. "_Doubt_ that's really wise. There are people in here."

Jonathan chuckled. Jace was definitely the more sensitive of the two but clearly he'd had too much to drink. Jonathan suspected he'd started on the alcohol before he'd even turned up tonight, because there's no way sober Jace would be so calm. Jonathan didn't care; he preferred an intoxicated best friend. He had much less morals, much less _emotion_.

The bartender watched them warily, shouting profanities at the two of them. "You're insane," she hissed.

"I prefer the term 'interesting.'" Jonathan responded smoothly, his eyes never straying from the amber flame.

"Sebastian, don't you dare," she murmured, too quiet for others to hear, and the use of his alternate name caught his attention.

He capped his lighter and looked at her, scanning her face expertly. "You've been hit, yet?"

"I've had a hit," she confirmed.

"You're clearly not as stupid as the other users," Jonathan said, glancing sideways at Jace. He didn't want his friend to find out he'd been dealing. He wasn't very good at keeping his trap shut, especially when his ethics got in the way.

"No, but that doesn't mean I won't sell your ass out if you light this place up."

He narrowed his eyes. "You wouldn't dare."

Jace looked between the two of them, his expression contorted into a confused frown. Jonathan hoped he never understood what was going on between him and this bartender. This whole affair was quiet, overlooked easily. None of the other customers had noticed them; they hadn't heard the smashing of the glass over the loud music. Being in the back corner of the room had its perks – no one had seen the lighter, or the spilled alcohol on the table and floor. This was just between Jonathan and the girl stood before him.

"What's your name?" Jonathan asked, his thumb playing idly with the lighter cap.

"Sophia."

He beckoned for her to come closer and she shook her head, eyeing his lighter warily. He smirked and gestured again, tipping his head to the side. He gave her no choice in the matter. She _would_ come closer. She took an unwilling step forward at his summon and Jonathan watched her with a cold, calculating mindset. _Just one more step._

"Well, Sophia," Jonathan murmured and he lowered his voice, forcing her to take another step to hear him. She was standing in the puddle of alcohol and smashed glass now. He moved his hand behind his back and flicked the cap of the lighter, his thumb brushing over the ignition. "You won't sell me out."

"Who says?"

"I say." He said simply and he touched the flame of the lighter to the puddle of alcohol. It lit instantly, flames igniting and screams of terror and pain emanated from Sophia, caught in the blaze. Jonathan acted quickly, adrenaline rushing. Jace jumped back with a cry of shock and Jonathan clamped a hand around his friend's wrist, dragging him away from the fire but not towards the exit. "Don't run." He commanded. "Wait."

"Are you fucking serious?" Jace slurred as the other customers finally noticed the havoc. "The place is on fire!" People in the bar looked around for the cause, others leaping in to help Sophia, who was writhing on the floor, her skin sizzling with the flames that licked at her clothes. Jonathan watched as a middle-aged man abandoned his table to help the bartender and Jonathan swiped his abandoned vodka mix from the table and splashed it over the curtains. He touched his lighter to the soaked material subtly and turned to Jace as the curtains lit up, flames instantly engulfing that side of the room. The heavy scent of smoke and alcohol pervaded the air.

Satisfied with his work, Jonathan pocketed the lighter, gripped Jace's sleeve and spat, "Now, we run."

Jonathan lunged for the restroom. Jace followed unquestioningly, swearing profusely under his breath. "What the fuck is going on, Jonathan? Why can't you just have a normal night out like every other guy in this goddamn city?"

Jonathan chuckled darkly. "Oh, don't be so boring, Herondale. You know how much I hate the less interesting." He smashed the restroom window with his elbow, unflinching, and launched himself onto the washbasin to crawl through the gap. He landed the fifteen-foot drop easily and shifted his weight impatiently as Jace followed his lead. Jonathan didn't want to leave Jace alone but he would if he found himself getting trapped by the authorities, which were nearing closer and closer as time ticked by.

"Hurry the fuck up, Jace." Jonathan ran a hand through his white blonde hair, watching as Jace drunkenly hoisted himself over the window ledge.

He dropped and landed beside Jonathan, brushing off his pants, wincing at the jolt. "You better have an explanation, Morgenstern."

"Why, brother, that would be telling."

They took off, weaving between buildings, hearing the screams of the customers die behind them as they fled the scene. They ran fast, vaulting over trash cans and gates and low fences in the back alleys of the streets. By the time the two of them deigned to take a break, they were in the other side of the city, close to Raziel's Court, the blare of the sirens miles away. Jonathan tried to brush the ash and charcoal dust from his clothes but to no avail. He pulled his shirt off and gestured for Jace to do the same. Jace handed Jonathan his shirt as they made their way up the drive of the Morgenstern Manor. When they entered Jonathan's home, he walked calmly over to the sink and set fire to the shirts, opening the window to let the smoke out and running the faucet to douse the flames. Once the shirts were burned to a crisp, he tossed them in the trash.

Jace stood against the door, arms crossed, watching his friend. "What was that all about?"

Jonathan walked over to the alcohol cupboard and pulled out two glasses and splashed vodka into them. He ignored Jace's question, toasting: "Pure vodka. To us, brother." He lifted his glass, offering Jace his. Jace hesitated only for a moment before taking the drink, downing it with Jonathan. Jace always did this; questioned Jonathan's motives temporarily before accepting anything he did. It was just a small phase, a habit of their hobbies. Jonathan was used to it, though it annoyed him no less. It was a test of Jace's loyalty and he always pulled through.

Jace's phone chimed and Jonathan narrowed his eyes. "Who is it?"

"Clary." Jace looked up, answering Jonathan obediently. "She's home alone. Her mom's out on a business trip or something."

Jonathan smiled bitterly. "Best run along and get your share, Herondale." He rapped his fingers on the counter, the sound sharp through the silence. "Give her my _best wishes_, won't you?"

"You're not going to explain what just happened, are you?"

Jonathan shook his head, taking a swig from the bottle now that his glass was empty. "No," he gasped, as the liquid burned his throat. His head was swimming; it wouldn't be long until he was under the influence of the alcohol blazing in his bloodstream. "Don't worry; we'll get away with it. Father will buy them off or something. There were no CCTV cameras and no one paid us any attention. Sophia will stay quiet – I've made sure of that. There's no incriminating evidence." Jonathan's phone buzzed and he checked it, reading the text with a feeling of surprised satisfaction spreading through him. "Besides, we've a friend who'll help us out; act as an alibi."

Jace raised an eyebrow. "We have?" He asked, his tone dry. "Do tell. Who might that be?"

Jonathan flashed Jace his phone and watched as Jace's face paled, the blood rushing from his skin. His golden eyes darkened with panic and his lips parted. Jonathan almost laughed. Funny, how the two of them could set a bar on fire and Jace would be totally fine, but as soon as a certain chick was mentioned, he lost his false composure and guilt shone visibly in his golden eyes.

"She's here?" Jace asked, sounding choked. "In the city?"

Jonathan grinned, flashing his teeth. _"Oh, yes."_ He sent a quick text back in response, chuckling at Jace's reaction. "Things are about to get much more fun around here."

Jace ran a shaky hand through his hair, his face shadowed. "Fuck. But it's been years…"

Jonathan smiled, though there was no warmth in his face. Nothing but cold amusement. "Brother, she can never stay away for long. Our dearest Nina is _back_."

* * *

**Don't forget to review! Which was your favorite section? Who do you think Nina is? Why did Jace react that way? Any predictions? Thoughts? Let me know, guys! Update soon!**


	11. Toxic

**Much love to all those readers that send me really nice things; I live for your encouraging optimism. Carry on reviewing and making my day!**

* * *

The pounding on her door started at approximately twenty-three minutes past midnight. Clary narrowed her eyes and stood, brushing the flakes of oil pastel from her black jeans. She rubbed her eyes – dazed with concentration – and threw open the door. "Alright, alright!" She moaned. "Cut it out, already – _Jace?"_

"You're on distraction duty," he slurred, staggering over the threshold. "It's been a long night."

She took in his appearance, noting the smell of alcohol and charcoal that lingered around him, almost entirely shrouding his trademark scent of smoke and mint. His face was not bruised but blood streamed from his nose. He also had a small cut on his lip and cheek. He wore a clean black shirt, but his dark jeans were marked with dust and…ash? There was a layer of the stuff in his hair, too, darkening its vivid golden color. When he caught her glancing at it, he shook his head, ruffling the strands with his fingers, an irritated scowl marring his features. Dust and ash drifted to the floor and she sighed, dismayed.

"The alcohol wasn't enough for you?" Clary asked casually, strolling into the kitchen to make some coffee and to wet a cloth, trying to suppress the panic she felt at seeing him so injured. He followed her, swaying and staggering into the furniture, knocking a frame from the counter and trying but failing to catch it, flailing wildly. "How much did you drink?"

He stopped, looking at his hands with wide eyes. "One…two…three…about four shots, some whisky, Jonathan's vodka…and then I broke into my dad's alcohol supply to steal some tequila since I couldn't be fucked to buy my own."

Great. So he'd been out with Jonathan. Why wasn't she surprised? She tried to suppress the hatred she felt for the maniac; he _made_ Jace like this. "You mixed drinks," she groaned. "You're going to throw up, everywhere."

"Relax," he muttered, sauntering towards her. "I can handle my liquor, baby."

She stilled, a tremble running up her spine. _Baby. _Why did that word completely undo her? She wet her lips and resumed what she was doing, tearing her gaze from him running the faucet over a cloth.

"What's wrong?" She asked him, keeping her tone calm. She would not let him distract her tonight. He was wasted and needed cleaning up. She didn't know why she'd been dumped with the task but she was grateful that he had come to her, instead of collapsing in a ditch somewhere in the city. Clary supposed she should take some gratitude from this; she was the person he was thinking of when his mind wasn't even functioning properly. The thought warmed her.

"Wrong?" Jace shrugged, but the movement was too casual, and the pain that flashed across his face was easy to see – Clary figured he wasn't very good at hiding his emotions whilst this intoxicated. "Nothing's wrong."

"So you decided to get wasted on a Tuesday night just for the sheer hell of it? Because you can?" Clary rolled her eyes, sarcasm dripping from her tone. "Sure."

"You see, this is a recurring problem, redhead. What you're doing now."

She turned to face him, her eyes widening when she noticed how close he stood. Beneath his injuries, she noticed the ghostly pallor of his face, the purple vein in his temple, his pupils, surrounded by golden irises – dilated.

"You're high." Clary said, disbelieving. She shook her head, astounded. "What did you take?"

Jace narrowed his eyes, ignoring her question, light irritation flashing over his face. "I told you this is a _problem_."

"What's a problem?" She pulled a chair out and pointed at it. "Sit. Now."

"Why?"

"I'm going to clean you up," she held up her damp cloth. "Sit or I'll make you."

He smirked, his eyes lighting with mirth, but the light died almost instantly and he shook his head. "This is a problem."

"_What's_ the problem, Jace?" She asked, approaching him once he sat. He opened his legs for her, allowing easier access to his face. She dabbed carefully at the streaks of blood pouring from his nose, but he didn't even flinch. She guessed the alcohol and drugs had numbed his perception of pain.

"I want to fuck you," he said, his words twisted with intoxication, his golden eyes staring up at her as she leaned over him to rinse the cloth. She froze, half-amused, half-shocked. "But I also don't."

Confused, she resumed her task, wiping the blood from his face. "Why not?"

"Because I don't know," he shrugged his shoulders, jostling her slightly. She scowled at him but he didn't notice. He was far too drunk to notice anything. "I don't like taking virgins."

She rolled her eyes. So they were back to this again. She wanted to snap at him but she remained calm. He was far from sober and his lips were loosened by all the drinks he'd downed; she couldn't lose her temper with him now – he was too vulnerable, too troubled. "If that were true, you wouldn't have asked for this no-strings relationship thing we have going on."

"Strings…" he chuckled, looking down at his lap. "What a ridiculous concept."

"A concept you carried with a lot of other girls." Clary pointed out. "It can't be that ridiculous."

He didn't respond; he seemed to be momentarily transfixed by a smudge of blood on his hand.

Sighing she placed her hand against his cheek, tipping his face back up to hers. His eyes held some kind of raw emotion, unconcealed, bared for her to see. She traced his cheekbone and he leaned into her hand, his own fingers circling her wrist, his eyes closed.

"Who did you fight with, Jace?" She asked, sadly.

"I don't know," he responded, his voice husky and soft. "I just had so much emotion and I had to let it out, you know? You ever get that? This dickhead just picked a fight with me on the street on my way over here and I just released it all. You ever need to just _forget?"_

She wiped at his nose again; the stream of blood was slowing down now and relief flooded through her. His nose wasn't broken, at least. "What did you do to him?"

"He's in a ditch somewhere," he shrugged. "Unconscious. The bastard deserved it."

"_Breaking news: Macks' bar on Haward Street has caught on fire, injuring twelve people. The fire was thought to have been started deliberately, however, no one has come forward with any knowledge. Fortunately, there were no fatalities, though one waitress – Sophia Street – is in critical condition in hospital with third degree burns. Witnesses are urged to come forward with any information they may have and neighbors are encourage to report any suspicious behavior."_

Jace cursed quietly under his breath, glaring through the open kitchen door to the television in the living room. "Fucking Jonathan."

Clary looked back from the television to Jace, her jumbled thoughts finally clicking into place. She strode over to the mantelpiece, where she'd left the remote, and switched the TV off, returning to Jace slowly. "Jace," she moaned, closing her eyes. "What have you done?"

"I didn't do it – Jonathan got out of hand again. There's no stopping him once he's got an idea." Jace looked up at her, his face anguished, his eyes surprisingly bright. He pleaded with her, his voice taking on a whiny tone she knew he'd never adopt if he was sober. "I didn't mean to hurt anyone, Clary. I never mean to hurt anyone. I just get so angry and sad and frustrated and now I'm confused because you're this massive problem to me and I can't figure out what to do and I just want to go back to the old days but I can't because every time I try to be the cold-hearted, numb dickhead I was, I see your face and I feel your disappointment and I don't know why your opinion of me means _so fucking much_ since you're supposed to be just a mindless screw but it does and now you're looking at me like that and I didn't mean to do any of it, I swear." He let out his breath, the rush of his words halting suddenly. She didn't know what to say. His next words were barely a whisper: _"I need you to believe me, Clary."_

She remembered the abandoned house, remembered the boy in the corner of the room, crying with his hands over his face. She remembered all the quotes: _To love is to destroy and to be loved is to be the one destroyed. _She needed to know what had happened to this boy. What had gone so drastically wrong in Jace's life that he felt the need to rely on drink and drugs, violence and crime, to vent his problems? Why couldn't he feel emotions like normal people? Why couldn't he show empathy or compassion or kindness?

"I believe you." The words left her mouth before she'd even really considered them. "I believe you because you're broken, Jace." It wasn't an excuse, but it was a start. If she learned to understand what he was, she could learn to understand why he did what he did.

He looked away from her, blinking. "I'll never be fixed."

She lifted his face gently, tracing the shadows under his eyes with her fingertips. His breath was alcohol-filled and his pupils were still dilated. She worried for his health; it couldn't be good for him to drink this much. "What did you take?" She asked gently, her thumb playing over his bottom lip, jutted out slightly as he sulked like a small child.

"Weed," he mumbled, his golden gaze searing hers, almost as if he was searching for answers in her eyes. "I do it all the time."

"I don't want you to take drugs anymore, Jace," she whispered, her voice broken. She blinked rapidly.

"Why?"

"Because one day, you might not be taking what you think you're taking," she said quietly, her thoughts lingering on the chaos wreaked by Heavenly Fire. "I can't bear the thought of you getting hurt because of your own stupidity."

"You're not supposed to care about me," Jace reminded her carefully, as though the words were foreign. "Why do you?"

"Strings…" she said in response, smiling slightly. "What a ridiculous concept."

"This is why you're such a problem to me, redhead," he said softly, resting his forehead against her stomach. She knotted her fingers in his filthy golden hair, unbothered by his blood on her shirt. "This is why I want to fuck you but don't."

"I don't understand."

He didn't move, but she felt his jaw tense against her abdomen, his words barely a mumble. "I want to fuck you because…because you're you. But I don't want to because I feel like you deserve more than that. Because you deserve more than just a meaningless screw and – I guess I don't really want to fuck you because I'd rather we share something more…better than that."

She smiled at his childish phrasing, a feeling of pleasure rushing over her skin, filtering into her bloodstream, igniting a warm glow in her stomach. She continued to run her hand through his hair and he shifted his head to look up at her, his chin resting on her stomach, his eyes wide. He'd never looked so vulnerable, so young. "I don't understand how you make me feel," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I don't understand it at all and I'm feeling the rush of the alcohol fade so I know all my emotions will be back again soon and I don't know if I can stand that…"

She brushed a hand through his hair softly, listening to his meaningless rambling. Drunk Jace was kind of adorable, even if the reasons behind his intoxication weren't. He was so complicated to understand. A man so torn up about his past, so heavily reliant on vices, so baffling in the things he did. She felt her chest relax slightly with pleasure. She liked him drunk – sort of. He was easier to talk to – his thoughts were simpler. He spoke childishly and ridiculously and he hid nothing. Perhaps this was why Jonathan was so attached to him; Jace had got drunk with him so often that Jonathan had gotten to know every one of Jace's secrets, spilled for him in the midst of intoxication. The idea left her feeling almost sad. She wanted to protect Jace – to hide his weakness from the man who exploited them.

"I don't even want to fuck any other girl." Jace seemed astounded by the idea, his tone full of disbelief. She frowned, trying to quiet her thoughts.

"What?"

"You know, Jonathan's been trying to throw girls my way and get me some pointless screws. But I don't find any of them attractive. I don't even care for my sex life at the moment."

"Perhaps you're gay," she said wryly, moving to the coffee machine to pour the brown liquid into two mugs. He looked from her to his hands, as though wondering what to do now he was no longer touching her. The lost expression on his face was cute, but heartbreakingly so.

He seemed to seriously consider her words. Clary rolled her eyes – drunk people were so simple.

"No, I'm not gay," he said, his jaw set. "I'm attracted to you. And Nina…" His eyes widened. "I'm not even attracted to Nina anymore. How weird is that?"

She didn't want to know who Nina was. She didn't want to know what her relationship with Jace entitled, if he still saw her. She'd ask him when he was sober and a little more emotionally stable. Besides, she didn't even have the energy to be jealous – she was much too busy being concerned and worried and patient and caring. She'd feel the jealousy later.

"Definitely weird," she pushed a mug of coffee into his hands and he scowled, hissing with pain.

"It's fucking hot, Clary."

"Sorry," she winced when he shook off his hand; she could see an angry red mark appearing on his palm. She didn't bother to point out that any normal person could figure out that freshly made coffee was usually hot. She didn't think Jace would appreciate that.

"I think you should drink that," she ought to at least try to sober him up, even though she'd rather let him speak freely to her, the way he was now.

"But it'll burn my tongue," he whined and Clary laughed at his pout, taking the mug from him to tip some coffee away. She topped it up with cold water and handed it back.

"There. It's cooler, now."

"The world needs more people like you, redhead," he mumbled, taking a sip at the coffee. He was starting to sound a little more coherent now, and his hands weren't shaking anymore.

"I'm going to turn the shower on – running water might sober you up." She took another sip of coffee.

"Actually, I just think really rough sex with you would sober me up."

She choked and put her mug down, trying to suppress the pang of desire that jolted through her at his drunken words.

"I think that's exactly what you _don't_ need, right now." She didn't look at him; she didn't know if her resolve would remain if she did.

He shrugged, unbothered by her rejection. "I can wait. I've waited until now, at least."

She opened her mouth to say something and shut it again, unsure what she was going to say. He stared at her over his mug of coffee. There was something dark and dangerous in his golden eyes, something sultry that she couldn't ignore, but it was contradicted completely by his dorky, drunken grin. She sighed and walked away.

"Don't move!" She called over her shoulder, wincing at the memory of him knocking the photo frame off her counter. How was she supposed to explain that to her mother in the morning? The thought of him breaking anymore of her furniture terrified her slightly.

She ran upstairs to the bathroom and switched on the shower, taking out a clean towel and placing it on the rack. She put away the razor and other things that Jace could potentially injure himself with and checked the heat of the water after a few minutes. Satisfied, she turned to go back downstairs but Jace stood in the doorway, watching her carefully, his arms crossed. She hadn't heard him approach. His pupils were no longer dilated and his gaze was dark. His movements were steadier, though still slightly off balance. She knew instantly that his mind was more focused and knew he'd gone back to the Jace she knew. Thoughtful, subdued, enigmatic. She wasn't sure if she felt disappointed at his change, or relieved. She wasn't sure which Jace she preferred: drunk or sober.

"You came down from that high pretty quickly."

He shrugged, pulling a face. "I usually do. Coffee does the trick. Coffee and some time spent alone. Since you gave me both…I'm not feeling the effects so badly."

"Well-"

He took a step forward and she backed away, wary but not afraid. Jace didn't scare her. She felt the water of the shower splash at her back and she gasped, squealing with shock as the water drenched her, soaking her clothes, causing them to cling to her skin. Jace took the opportunity to lunge towards her, his hand snaking around her waist, pulling her close to him. The water hit him, darkening his golden hair but he didn't even flinch. She rested her hands on his chest, nerves ignited, turning her body into fire. His other hand brushed across her cheek before knotting in her hair, lifting her face up to his. He kissed her softly, but the urgency grew until he pinned her against the wall, his hands trapping her wrists above her head as his lips crashed against hers harshly, his tongue exploring every inch of her mouth. He tasted of smoke and mint, with the faint remnants of alcohol. He let go of her after a moment and she let her hands roam, moving from his cheeks to his neck to his chest to the hem of his shirt. She lifted it quickly and he shrugged it off, his hand reaching for her waist, pulling her flush against him, as his other knotted in her hair.

"There's something about you, Clary Fray," he whispered against her mouth. "I can't seem to stay away."

She bit at his lip playfully in response and his grip tightened in her hair, a moan escaping his mouth.

Clary traced the lines of his chest, feeling the hard muscles of his torso tense beneath her touch as he sucked in a sharp breath. Water droplets dripped from his golden hair onto his skin, falling further, following his trail of soft golden hair from his belly button to the buckle of his belt. She traced another drop with her finger as he pressed a soft kiss in her hair, following the droplet over the planes of his chest, down over his abdomen before resting at his waistband.

"Don't."

"What?"

"Don't bite your lip like that or I won't be able to resist," he told her darkly. "I will have those clothes _off_, redhead, faster than you think."

She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully, her finger still resting at his waistband. She lifted her head to kiss him and her fingers slipped beneath the belt. She felt him gasp against her mouth and his grip on her hair tightened almost to the point of pain. Her lips parted as his other hand effortlessly popped the button of her jeans and she groaned as he placed small kisses on her neck, over the swell of her breasts, his tongue tracing the line of her bra. He moved down, his fingers running over her naked spine, until his lips rested at the top of her bikini line. She held her breath as he pulled her jeans and underwear down, his lips pressing against the inside of her thigh as he spread her legs with his hand. He looked up at her, a wicked grin playing at his lips as his fingers brushed her inner thigh and then pressed against her core. She jerked, moaning softly, and he hummed in response, pressing a soft kiss on her stomach as his fingers stroked her. She tipped her head back against the wall and Jace stopped, pulling away to stare up at her.

"Look at me, Clary."

"Hmm?"

"I need to see your eyes, baby."

That word again. Her eyes opened and she looked at him, running her fingers in his damp, blonde hair. The corner of his lips tipped up into an awed smile and he pressed against her pressure point, his tongue snaking out to taste her. She cried out but didn't take her gaze away, despite the heated flush pooling in her cheeks. His lips parted as he watched her and he inserted a finger slowly, watching as she trembled in anticipation and desire.

"Jace," she hissed, tightening her grip in his soaking hair. The water drummed against the two of them, slicking both of their bodies, fuelling the heat shared between them. "Jace, _please_."

"I'll never get bored of this," he said, clutching her hip to steady her as she swayed with rising pleasure. "I'll never get bored of seeing you like this."

He pulled out to trace his tongue across her skin, sucking slightly. The sensation was incredible; she could feel her muscles tremor and her stomach tightened. She gasped, gripping onto his arm, unsure if she wanted to keep him there or push him away. It was almost too much.

"I want you, Jace," she whispered. "I want you."

His paused, his golden eyes widening marginally. He stood, his gaze never straying from hers, dark and seductive and focused. She watched him and she couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking. He took her face in his hands to kiss her. This was different to all of their past kisses. This was softer and deeper and spoke of more. He lifted her up and she wrapped her legs around his waist, gripping him tightly. He pushed her against the wall as they kissed roughly, their passion mounting. She gripped his shoulders tightly, her nails digging in. She remembered the last time she did that – in the abandoned house – remembered his words: _Hold me. Don't let go._

She didn't. She gripped onto him, feeling his muscles tense under her touch. His hand caressed her body, moving from her hips up to her breasts, to finally rest at her jaw as his thumb brushed over her cheekbone. It was a surprisingly affectionate gesture; something she hadn't been sure Jace was capable of. She wasn't sure he realized he was doing it.

She reached for his belt buckle and he helped her until they managed to get his soaking pants off. The two of them were still damp, and water pounded the two of them, though he shielded her from most of it. Droplets dripped onto her body from his hair and she brushed a wet lock out of his eyes. He noticed every movement she made, following her acutely. She was on fire, her body ignited by his touch, by his gaze. She'd never wanted anything more than she wanted him.

"I don't understand what you're doing to me, Clary," he whispered, closing his eyes briefly, but not before she saw the flash of raw pain in his eyes. He was still under the influence of the alcohol in his bloodstream; his words were still uncensored, too full of emotion to be spoken whilst sober.

"I just want you," she told him sincerely.

He nodded, swallowing. Clary thought he wasn't used to people telling him that. She reached up to kiss him, trying to diffuse the tension. He gave in, pushing her back against the wall. She slid her hands down to his drenched boxers, playing idly with the elastic waistband. She could feel him against her, his erection pressed against her stomach, just the one layer of fabric between them. She yearned for him, wanted the passion and the bliss and the fire, but she didn't want to have sex with him when he was drunk.

She teased the edge of his boxers down, a silent question in her eyes. He grinned against her lips and helped her. She bit her lip, the sight of him naked furthering her desire. She pulled him closer until their bodies touched, and his lips crashed against hers again as she ran a hand over his hip, over the muscles of his v-lines. She was high on this feeling of pleasure and desire, drunk on the lust and passion they shared.

"I want to touch you," she murmured against his lips and she swallowed his surrendering groan.

"Please do," he responded, his voice torn. His grip on her was harsh, but she loved that about what they were doing. She loved that the words he spoke were soft, but his touch was hard. Jace was this dangerous, enthralling mix of gentle and rough. Of emotion and callousness. She should be wary of that; she should know that it's only going to get her hurt, but she was already too invested to care. She couldn't push Jace away – not when she wanted to know so much more about him, not when she was so desperate to protect him from the harm of the world.

She wrapped her hand around his length, biting her lip. He lifted her head, using his thumb to snag her lip from her teeth, shooting her a warning look. She stole a glance into his eyes, admiring the molten golden, the dark emotion within them. "I don't know much about this," she admitted and he nodded, no scorn or sarcasm in his gaze. His hand encircled hers and he guided her movements, his lips parted as he watched her face.

"Just like that – a little tighter," he murmured and he let go of her hand to run his fingers through her hair. "God, I want to…"

She brushed a thumb over the tip of his cock and he stopped, hissing in pleasure. Overcome with a sudden wave of confidence and self-assurance at his reaction, she kissed him lightly, sucking softly at the base of his throat, travelling over his chest until she knelt before him. She wanted to do something for him – she wanted to make him feel the same way he made her feel. She pumped him slowly before she let her tongue dart over his tip, tasting the accumulation of pre-come. He closed his eyes briefly, a small groan emanating from his lips. She looked up at him as she took him into her mouth, sucking lightly, her hand still pumping his base. He looked down at her, touching a droplet of water on her face. She closed her eyes reflexively, her tongue swirling around his length and he moaned, "No, don't stop looking at me. Please."

She opened her eyes and glanced up at him as she pumped his cock in and out of her mouth. He pulled her hair from her face, wrapping it in a fierce knot around his fist. He fucked her mouth quickly, each thrust short and fast. She moaned against him and he swore when the vibrations of the sound took their effect on him.

"I'm going to come, Clary," he warned her, his words husky and clipped. "So, if you don't want to…"

She didn't pull away. She kept her eyes fixed on his as she ran her tongue up his length, flicking at his tip. "Fuck," he whispered, and she thrust her hand around him as he rocked against her, small moans escaping his lips as he came. He watched her, transfixed, as she swallowed the salty taste of him. "Holy shit, you're good at this, redhead."

She sat back and smiled, tipping her head back to enjoy the running water from the shower flow over her body. He reached down to pull her up to him, his lips brushing hers, his fingers twisting in the hair at the nape of her neck. She leaned into him, sighing, before saying, "We should sleep. I have college tomorrow and you're drunk."

"I'm not that drunk," he protested, his voice soft against her ear. "Perhaps I can persuade you to take the morning off college."

She rolled her eyes. "Not happening," she leaned forward to switch the shower off, instantly feeling the cold as the absence of the hot water caused goosebumps to ripple on her skin. Jace stepped out of the shower and held out the towel she'd left for him. She stepped into it gratefully, relaxing as he wrapped the towel around her shoulders, his arms clinging to her for longer than necessary. He was definitely still drunk. There was no way he'd be so affectionate whilst sober.

"I burned my tongue on that coffee," he complained, releasing her. He pulled a face, distaste in his golden eyes. "This is my not-impressed face."

She laughed and a touch of a smirk twitched at his lips. She reached for another towel and handed it to him. He wrapped it around his waist but not before he caught her staring. She took in each contour of his chest, the sharp lines of his muscles. She took in the perfections and the flaws. He grinned mischievously, his eyes flaring with mirth. "Eyes up here, redhead, or sleeping will be off the agenda."

She flushed and handed him a robe. It was black and so large that she often felt drowned in it. It was why she loved it. He shrugged it on but didn't bother tying it. They walked into her room and she pulled on some shorts and a t-shirt, shaking out her soaking hair. He sat on her bed, pulling the comforter over most of her body, his legs crossed as he watched her.

"You have a tattoo," she murmured, her gaze lingering on the skin of his left side, hidden beneath the robe. "I didn't notice before."

"I have two." He pointed to the hollow of his v-line, hidden partially underneath the comforter. There was a tiny patch of ink there, but she couldn't see what it was. "They're small; I wouldn't expect you to notice."

She took a step forward, placing her knee on the bed, and he raised his hands defensively, ducking his head. "Don't. Don't touch me. Please."

Surprised at the change of his tone, she looked at his face. Pain was evident in his tortured gaze, his eyes dark with anguish and hatred. She tried to understand what she'd said or done to upset him, but she couldn't. The instant change in moods had her reeling, and her hands dropped to her sides as she looked at him. He looked so lost, so vulnerable.

"Why?" She murmured, her voice soft. She tried not to mention the obvious: that he didn't have a problem with her touching him before. She doubted it meant the same to him. That was superficial sex. This was…a glance into his mind, his private life.

He looked down at his hands in his lap, and she tried not to marvel as droplets of water hit his chest, travelling down his bronzed skin. He really was beautiful. Beautiful and broken. An aching sadness pounded in her chest.

"Because I don't want you to," he said, harshly. His hand shook as he ran it through his hair. "I shouldn't have come here tonight."

She let out a breath, feeling as though she'd been punched in the gut. She clutched at the comforter beneath her hands, blinking back tears. "You regret it?"

"Yes…no…I don't know," he shrugged, scratching his arm absent-mindedly. There was a far-away look in his face; he was some place she couldn't reach. "I can't think clearly – my mind is fucked up."

"You're drunk," she reminded him. "And coming down from a high."

He waved her off. "It's not that. I have a level head when I'm drunk – it's why I choose to drink." He inhaled deeply, his eyes narrowing to slits. Watching him battle this internal emotional war was difficult for Clary. She couldn't help him, couldn't aid him. She didn't even know what he was thinking. There was a profound helplessness to Jace Herondale, helplessness she knew he didn't let people see often. She supposed she should feel grateful that he chose her to show his weaknesses to, but all she felt was a resounding sadness.

She took another step forward and he backed up against the headboard, his eyes widening like a trapped animal. _Fear,_ Clary thought. There was fear in his gaze. Fear at the unknown, fear at affection, fear at the intimacy of their moment. He held up his hands again, shaking his head slightly, his eyes dark.

"I'm not going to hurt you," she promised, trying not to show how much his vulnerability shocked her. She wanted him to be comfortable, to relax. He wouldn't want to feel mocked or ridiculed or judged. "Please, Jace. I just want to…"

"Want to what?" He snarled roughly. "Touch me? Know me? Love me? You can't do any of those, Clary."

She paused, her eyes never straying from his. "I just want to _see_ you. I just want…you," she said calmly, and it was true. She didn't want to do anything to him; she didn't want to tell him anything or learn anything more than she just wanted to be with him. She wanted to sit beside him and just be his company. She wanted to show that she cared – though she swore she wouldn't. She didn't want him to be alone anymore.

"No one wants me," he stated, and there was no pity in his tone, no complaint. It was a fact. No one ever wanted Jace Herondale and he knew that.

"I do." She climbed onto the bed, sensing his unease dissipate slightly. "I want you."

"You don't know me."

"It doesn't matter."

He watched her approach him, his eyes guarded. "Will you still want me when you know the truth?"

She hoped his use of 'when' meant he was eventually going to tell her what was wrong with him. She'd never wanted anything more. She reached for him slowly and he flinched. She ran her hand up his arm, her fingers tracing the scars etched into the inside of his wrist. Her mouth was dry with nerves, with the fear of rejection. She wanted to show him. To show him that it was possible to be wanted despite flaws.

His hand closed into a fist and he pulled his arm away from her. She felt a sting of hurt jolt through her, but the softness in his eyes told her he didn't mean it as rejection. It was instinctual for him to hide away his problems.

"When I was four," Clary murmured, breaking the silence. "I had this recurring nightmare. In it, I would sit, chained to a chair, with my arms held out. Faceless men would approach me in the dark and they would slice at my wrists. Hundreds and hundreds of open cuts would be hacked into my skin and I lost _so much_ blood. They told me each cut gave the pain of a problem. I was four – I didn't understand what it meant. But now I do."

She marked out the lines of his wrists, pressing her lips to his palm. "Each scar is the reminder of the past. Here, someone told you they don't love you. Here, someone betrayed you. Here, someone wasn't there for you when you needed them to be."

Jace didn't say anything. He just watched her, his golden eyes searching hers, revealing nothing.

"I have these cuts in my dreams, Jace." She murmured.

"I have nightmares, too," he eventually said, his voice barely a rasp. "Mine are the reflections of reality."

"All dreams are."

"You were four, redhead." Jace rolled his eyes, though his voice remained quiet. "What could possibly plague you at four years old?"

"Dreams are the reflections of reality. But reality is all in here." She touched his head. "In your subconscious. Your deepest regrets, your fears, your hopes, your passions."

"_You're_ one massive problem, redhead."

She pulled back slightly, pulling a face. "Why?"

"Because this shit you talk is mostly true…no one can ever figure me out like you do," he looked down at his hands again. "No one bothers to try."

"I'm trying," she told him. "And you're pushing me away." She sat there, watching the emotions play out on his face. Remorse, hope, fear, apprehension.

He hesitated. Slowly – torturously slowly – he lifted the robe from his hip, keeping the rest of him covered, revealing his tattoo. "The moon."

It was a half-crescent, so tiny that she found herself nearing him to truly see it. She traced it with her finger lightly and he flinched, tensing, but didn't move away. After a while, he began to relax.

"A reason?"

He looked at her, his hand reaching out to touch a damp lock of her red hair. "There's light in the darkness. You just have to find it."

She nodded, understanding the meaning behind it. Like a file written out, she tucked the moon tattoo away in her mind, along with the abandoned house, and the falcon story, and the drink and the drugs and the vice that was Jonathan Morgenstern. "And your other one?"

He shifted the comforter away, and she tried not to flush as he shifted the robe around himself, concealing intimate flashes of skin. He showed the tattoo, traced against his v-line. Words scrawled in tiny handwriting she recognized as his own.

"'I am the architect of my own destruction.'" Clary read and she looked up at him, frowning. "That's true. But you're also the architect of your own happiness."

Jace pulled the comforter over himself, ensuring Clary was covered, also. "Perhaps if I ever become happy, I will add to it." He looked at her. "But that's not looking to be too soon and…I really did burn my tongue on that coffee."

She laughed, mostly because he made it sound like that was the reason he was unhappy; he was trying to diffuse the tension. "It's freaking three a.m," she said, lying down. "We need to get some sleep."

He lay down beside her, checking the comforter was covering her. He lay on his side, his head resting on his hand, his eyes scanning her face. Clary didn't look at him – she didn't know what to say in the heavy silence that followed.

"I'm going to have a fucking killer of a hangover tomorrow," he told her, even as her eyes began to close.

Sleep began to claim her, slow and drowsy. She tried to stay awake just a little longer; she wanted to respond to Jace, but the words wouldn't leave her lips. As she drifted off, she heard Jace speak, "Can I…can I hold you, Clary?"

"Mmm…" she murmured and she felt him gather her up into his arms. She rested her head on his chest, feeling more content than she had in a long time. Perhaps she would regret this in the morning – or Jace would – but she didn't care now. He was comfortable, and the way he habitually traced spirals on the skin of her hip sent her to sleep peacefully and darkness claimed her.

* * *

Jonathan had never felt so alive. She made him like this. Agitated and frustrated and aroused.

She always did this – drove him nuts. He waited in the foyer, straddling a chair, leaning his head on the frame. He watched the door carefully, waiting for the turn of the lock. Valentine was out on another business trip and Jonathan couldn't say he really cared. He'd showered in the time since Jace had left, and changed his clothes. He wore a black t-shirt and dark jeans – his pale skin and hair stood at contrast but his dark eyes complemented. He was all black and white. Dark and light.

His phone chimed and he picked it up, reading a text from Jace.

_I may have just beat the shit out of some asshole. Might still be alive – maybe you should check. I can't be fucked. Bowler's Street if you're interested._

So he was heading to Clary's. The thought pleased him sadistically. He already had a claim over her – a claim Jace would never be able to touch. He threw his phone on the mantelpiece, bored and annoyed. He didn't care about Jace's antics – though he had to admit that he was slightly amused that he'd only been gone for an hour and already wreaked some kind of havoc. Chuckling quietly, he resumed watching the door.

Her shadow moved up their driveway. In the light from the manor's security beam, she could hardly be seen. Jonathan sat up straight and licked his lips, energized from just her memory. She was always interesting, always more fun than anyone else. Jonathan loved what she offered him, loved her toxic claim over the world. She was his addiction and he was hers. They owned each other in an underlying, sadistic way, competed with each other.

The key slid in the lock and turned slowly. The door opened.

"Oh, Morgenstern," her soft, seductive voice wrapped around him, "You've waited for me."

"It's been a long time," he responded, his voice quiet. "Nina."

She stepped into the manor. Her raven hair was cut short, her fringe an electric purple. Her icy blue eyes raked him, lined with black pencil, taking in his alert form. She wore tight, ripped jeans and a fitted corset accompanied with a leather jacket. She shrugged the jacket off, letting it drop to the floor, and her arms were even more tattooed than the last time he'd seen her. There was barely any flesh left clean. Jonathan stayed where he was – he didn't want to move for her. They were always like this – a test of wills, or power. Only this time, he'd come out on top.

His eyes scanned her face. He noticed she'd pierced her eyebrow since he'd last seen her, and there was a new tattoo at the back of her neck: a rose with emphasized, sharp thorns. That was Nina. Strong, unwavering, threatening.

Her tongue snaked out, running over her lip ring as she approached him. He tensed.

"I'd almost forgotten your beauty, Morgenstern. Like the angel you're not, of course," she told him, tracing a long fingernail down his face. "Look at that _jaw-line. _And those eyes – I could carve them out their sockets and make millions, I'm sure."

"Nina…" he warned her, sitting back slightly, taking himself out of her grasp. "You know your violence isn't a turn on for me," he said lazily, though the words were a lie. Everything about her was a delicious turn on, especially her bloodthirsty violence.

"I remember you told me that once." She said, looking down at him. She leaned towards him, her lips hovering over his, her words barely a whisper when she spoke. _"'Your poison is spreading, my friend,'_ you said. _'I do not acquaint myself with rotting filth.'"_

"To this day, that statement remains true," Jonathan told her simply, refusing to show her any kind of weakness. He picked at the skin of his nails with a bored expression.

"You _lie_, Morgenstern," she breathed. "Because if that was the truth, I wouldn't be here now."

He gritted his teeth, the first thread of anger pulsing through him, dark and ugly. He should have known to expect this. There was no one that pissed him off as much as this girl did. Except, perhaps, Isabelle Lightwood, but since she hadn't bothered him recently…

He wasn't going to sit here and take her insults on his pride. He stood, towering over her, and she straightened, a smirk twitching at her lips. He reached out to flick her eyebrow ring, taking dark satisfaction when she winced with pain. "This is new."

"Glad you noticed," she tipped her head back slightly, her lips parting. The tension between them was thick. "A fan, are we?"

"Fuck off, Nina."

She backed up, adopting an innocent expression. "Someone needs a good screw," she sang musically, circling him slowly. "Tell me, is that why you called? Bored of all the normal lot? Need a little bit of…spice in your life?"

He scowled at her, hating the way his blood sang under her veins at her seductive words. "I called you for Jace," he said, calmly.

She stilled, her eyes widening dramatically. "Oh, _Jace," _she rolled her eyes, moving behind him. He didn't turn around. "So he's been getting the action and you've been feeling a little left out? I tell you, pal, he was good in bed. Perfectly rough but easily tamed. He has a way of…getting what he wants from those who otherwise wouldn't give it."

When he didn't respond, she pressed on. "Not like you, though. Right? You take it whether it's offered or not. At least Jace is charming. You're just…_unwanted._ You're envious of that in him, aren't you? That's why you called me."

Jonathan loathed her for this, loathed the way she could read a situation, manipulate it, and make it what she wanted. His blood sizzled with the anger he felt sluggishly pulsing inside him. "Something like that," he said, humoring her.

She pressed up against him, her lips drifting over the back of his neck. "Jealous, Morgenstern? Or are we lonely? Have you grown _soft_ over these past few years without me?"

That was the last straw. He whipped around and slammed her against the wall, yanking her hair hard enough that she gasped with pain and surprise. He pressed his body against her, sliding his knee between her legs, his arm pressed against her throat.

Her lips spread into a slow grin and she laughed softly, bringing a finger up to his chin, tracing the line of his jaw. "So much control, Jonathan Morgenstern. But so easily lost."

"You don't know anything about me."

"Of course," she allowed, her teeth startlingly white against her crimson lips. "Because you're so enigmatic, these days. Forget our history, for you're an _enigma_ now. Enigmatic enough to hide behind a false name and cowardly frame a friend for dealing. Morgenstern…_darling_…you've lost your touch."

His nostrils flared with anger and he growled, his grip on her throat strengthening. "I could kill you. No one would miss you. You're alone-"

"Like yourself, apparently."

"I. Could. Kill. You." He repeated, each word like venom.

"But you won't." She sighed, bored. "That would be such a waste of time. Not to mention _dreary_."

He gritted his teeth together, scanning her face. This was something he'd missed; the adrenaline of appreciating a good enemy. He hated Nina, but he respected her. Likewise, she felt the same. It was what made them a good team. They worked well together. They were both ruthless and cruel and cold-hearted and they both knew what they wanted from the world and would take it willingly or not. If there was ever going to be a female version of Jonathan Morgenstern, it was Nina.

"You have to admit you've missed this," Jonathan said, eventually, watching the surprise play out on her face. "You've missed this city, missed the chaos and the power we held over it. You've missed the two of us – Jace and I – and how the three of us, together, owned the world."

"Yes," she breathed, the word filled with desire and want and more. "But then everything was taken from me and you and Jace left me to fend for myself. I was _ruined_."

"That could have been Jace's fault," Jonathan shrugged. "Or mine. We may never know which."

"_I _know."

Jonathan froze, his jaw dropping with shock. He'd never felt shock and fear like this, never felt so off-guard in his entire life. His hold on Nina slackened slightly, and she turned the tables, flipping him over until she pinned him against the wall. His eyes searched hers, searching for the answers he knew she held.

"You know which of us it was?"

Nina smiled, and slowly – too slowly – she ran her tongue over Jonathan's bottom lip, staking her claim, proving her power. He remained frozen, unable to react, to do anything more than stare.

"It would be too easy to tell you, Morgenstern," Nina murmured. "I know. And you may never. Does that kill you inside? You like to own things, don't you? People and possessions and knowledge. But you may never own _this_."

He spat at her. "You make the mistake of thinking I fucking give a shit about your pathetic problems."

"Oh, yes. Jonathan Morgenstern doesn't care about anything." Nina nodded sarcastically, false understanding crossing her face. "Apart from Jace Herondale…and his own sister."

"How do you know about Clary?" Anger resurfaced. He hated that she had so much knowledge of him, and he had nothing to fight back with. Honestly, Nina could have been dead these last few years and he would be none the wiser. She'd disappeared off his radar, as much as he hated to admit it, and he hadn't bothered to hunt her down. Now, he wished he had.

"I want to meet this girl." Nina told him, musingly. "If _Jonathan Morgenstern_ wants to fuck his own sister, she must be pretty damn interesting."

He reached up to pull viciously at her hair – anything to loosen her ridiculous hold over him – but she danced out of his reach. He didn't mind; she was no longer holding him. He straightened his shirt and lunged at her, catching her completely off-guard. She recovered quickly, batting his hit away and crashing her lips against his. She kissed him viciously, and Jonathan wanted nothing more than to kiss her back. That was the thing about Nina – she pissed him off like nobody else, but she also distracted him from his anger. She was this toxic combination of problem and distraction, and he couldn't get enough of her.

"It's been a while since I've fucked you, Nina," he said, his voice low, as he slammed her against the wall again.

"A tribute to old times, huh?" She reached down, her fingers massaging the crotch of his jeans. "I could make you beg for mercy again, Jonathan. Like you used to. You're a man who needs to be ruled. Someone needs to keep your violent antics in check."

He hissed and wrenched her hair, feeling strands pluck away from her scalp. Her lips parted as a small whimper of pain escaped her mouth. "Nuh-uh, naughty boy. That's not how the game goes. You have to play by the _rules_." Her hand whipped out to slap his cheek and his head snapped to the side as he absorbed the blow. She pinned him there, her fingernails digging into his cheek.

"Move and you'll bleed."

"Perhaps I want to," Jonathan spat, his breathing rapid with anger and adrenaline and lust.

"Oh, I can make you bleed, Morgenstern," Nina whispered. "But first…" With a surprising speed, she pulled his zipper down. He tried to move his head to face her, to fight back, but she pinned him, and her nail drew a small line of blood across his cheekbone. He froze. If his face was damaged, people would know someone fought with him. People would know someone fought with him, and almost won.

"I really don't want to mar that beautiful face." She whined quietly. "So _don't_ fight me."

"I will torture you until you scream." Jonathan promised, seething.

"Ooh, I like the sound of that." She slipped her palm inside his pants and he gritted his teeth, trying not to show how much her dominance turned him on. It always did. Her control was something he could match and he wanted more of her.

"Let's have some fun, Jonathan. For old times' sake." She leaned forward, her whisper barely brushing his ear. _"Did you miss me?"_

She finally released his face and he yanked her head back to kiss her, his tongue claiming her mouth. He would show her. He would show her that she couldn't control him; that his power exceeded hers. Even if he had to pound her into submission, strike her until she was black and blue, hear her whimper with pain he inflicted, he would put her in her place.

Nina, apparently, had other ideas. And she was not one to be messed with.

* * *

**Don't forget to review! Let me know your predictions! Love you all.**

**Reader Question: What has been your favorite scene of the story so far and why? **

**Peace :)**


	12. Tension

**Update - lots of good stuff coming soon!**

* * *

If there was one thing Clary loved more than kissing Jace, it was dancing with him. There was always something so intense shared between them, like a small current running between them every time they brushed each other, their skin touching. She both loved and loathed the temptation and teasing that dancing offered, heard the unspoken promise of what was to come.

Jace's hand moved from her waist to her face, travelling under her jaw, tipping her face up. Her skin tingled with his touch and she fought the urge to tremble. His eyes were dark with desire as they appraised her, and his smirk spoke of his filthy thoughts. They shouldn't be doing this, dancing on the bar. She was supposed to be on the floor, waitressing, and he was supposed to be serving drinks. It was her first night on the job, as well; Isabelle had finally decided she could do with some first-hand experience and put her on shift for tonight. She would be furious when she saw Clary and Jace now, dancing atop the counter, enclosed in their own world, ignoring the swarming, cheering crowd around them.

Clary could feel the buzz of the alcohol churning through her veins. Isabelle had encouraged her to drink, claiming it took the edge off her nerves, loosened her up a little – and it had, but to an extreme Isabelle probably didn't need. Clary was well on her way to being tipsy, and her inhibitions were almost completely stripped. Surprisingly, her mind was clear, but perhaps that was due to Jace's touch. Only he could send her into this erratic haze whilst simultaneously steadying her thoughts.

The music switched up and the beat quickened. Grinning mischievously, he threw her back. Her breath left her body as she was whipped in his arms, her hair flying with the force. He caught her before she could hurt herself, and drew her close, his lips tracing the skin of her bared throat, his tongue flicking against the dip of her cleavage. She couldn't breathe. This was a side of Jace that was foreign and exciting to her; he was darker and lust-filled, fuelled by his drive for more. She smoothed her hands up his chest. He was wearing a white shirt, but the first four buttons were undone, leaving less to be imagined, revealing the unblemished, tanned skin of his chest. Her fingers teased his skin beneath his collar, her nails scratching lightly at his shoulders. His eyes flashed.

"You're teasing me, redhead," he growled, his hand reaching for the back of her thigh. She lifted her leg against him, wrapping her ankle around his waist and leaning back, forcing him to cup her ass to support her. His grip was hard and the pressure shot straight to her core, heating her from within, igniting waves of fire to ripple over her skin. Her stomach tightened as desire washed over her.

"I guess this is a test of your self-restraint," she breathed, her fingers sliding to the top of his spine, twisting in the blonde curls at the nape of his neck. Her other hand moved down, tracing the muscles of his abdomen, her nail skimming across his v-lines, lingering at the position of his tattoo, hidden beneath his shirt.

"Soon, I may snap." His head dipped forward, his lips hovering over her mouth. "You've completely enthralled me, Clary Fray."

Her lips parted, inhaling the minty taste of his breath. His words wrapped around her, dark and seductive, and she took her bottom lip between her teeth, rolling it subconsciously as her jaw flexed. His gaze moved to her mouth, his golden eyes widening marginally. He watched her for a moment, before ducking his head to hers. Gently, with a care Clary hadn't thought Jace could muster, he took her bottom lip between his teeth, biting gently, growling softly. She knew what he was saying; _don't bite your lip_ – it did things to weaken his self-restraint. She smiled softly against his mouth, her tongue snaking out along his upper lip. He shuddered beneath her touch, and she took that as permission to touch him further. She rolled her hips against him, her hand travelling up the planes of his back, gripping onto his shoulder as she danced and grinded against him. The crowd was yelling and throwing dollar bills up onto the counter, but the two of them hardly noticed. Jace sucked in a sharp breath when he felt her against him, and she could barely think beyond the sensation of his hardened crotch against her hips. He was aroused, and so was she, and neither of them could think past the feeling of the other against them.

"Fuck, Clary," he whispered, his lips brushing her ear. "Careful, or I might have to take you – momentarily – off shift."

"Why would you want to do that?" Her voice was innocent, but her smirk was most definitely not. He ran a hand over her red hair, his gaze avoiding hers for a moment, but Clary thought that was more for his self-control than because he was interested in the individual strands of her hair. He wrapped several locks in his fist and her lips parted. She loved how he made her feel. Wanted and attractive and beautiful and strong. She was almost addicted to Jace's touch.

"I'd want to take you into one of those private rooms upstairs," he muttered, his eyes skimming her throat. "And I'd bend you over one of those pool tables and fuck you until you cried out."

She exhaled, mostly with shock and pleasure, as a tremble ran down her spine. She reached for his face, and for the first time, he didn't withdraw or flinch away from her. He let her touch his jaw, let her tilt his gaze to meet hers. This was progress, Clary thought. The old Jace would never have allowed such an intimate gesture.

"I'd cry your name," she promised, searching his golden gaze.

"Always?"

She had a feeling they were talking about more than sex now. She stared at him, committing the beautiful features of his face to memory. She'd seen so many feelings in his face before, witnessed so many emotions churning in his eyes. She'd seen lust and passion, desire and want. But she'd also seen sadness and anguish – the brokenness that was Jace Herondale.

She rolled her eyes, and gripped his neck, pulling him closer. She pressed herself against him, holding him firmly. "I can't promise always," she said, smirking, "because that's impractical. I can't exactly cry your name when I'm…asleep or something, I don't know-"

"You did, last night."

She stepped back, shocked. She remembered last night, remembered the shower and the heat and the tattoos. She remembered falling asleep in his arms, and waking up beside him. He'd been fully clothed – he'd changed at some point during the night – and he'd traced careful circles across her bared hip, a habit of his. He hadn't noticed she was watching him, at first, and Clary had enjoyed his openness; his gaze had been so unguarded. She'd seen affection in his golden eyes, affection and hope and vulnerability and doubt. She'd giggled, because his touch had tickled her, and gripped his fingers to stop the sensation. He'd instantly built that wall over his mind, veiling his true emotions, withdrawing from her, but he'd smiled slightly and she'd squeezed his hand to tell him that it was okay: she _didn't_ regret last night and she didn't judge him for what he felt for her. She felt the same way. But conveying this with Jace was like trying to get blood from a stone, and he'd slowly pulled away from her, albeit reluctantly.

She looked at him now, unblinking, and his eyes lit with amusement. "Now, who's got the upper hand?" He chuckled.

Heat flushed into her cheeks, warming her face. She didn't remember what she'd dreamed about last night, but the thought of murmuring his name in her sleep didn't do much for her self-esteem – though no doubt it did wonders for his – and she didn't want him to think she was weak or judge her for how she felt. They were under this tenuous illusion that their relationship was still no strings attached, and revealing the truth about her feelings for him might push him away.

There was space between them, now, where she'd stepped away from him. He reached for her hips, pulling her closer. Unexpectedly, he kissed her, his hand pulling gently at the locks of her hair, his other hand touching her face, his knuckles brushing lightly against her cheekbone. There was something reassuring about the kiss, full of heat and desire as it was. It was soft, and she parted her lips, allowing him access. His tongue explored her mouth as he deepened the kiss, and she made a sound of want, her breathing shaky. He grinned against her mouth, chuckling, and she swallowed the sound, devouring the vibrations of the noise, committing it to memory. Jace never laughed enough, and so when he did, she tucked the memory away in the darkest corners of her mind, and saved it for a moment when she was ridiculously annoyed with him or someone else. His laugh was definitely one of his most beautiful assets, and she would happily listen to it all day long.

"I feel so stupid," she told him, burying her face into his shoulder. She swayed against him, the two of them hopelessly trying to persuade the crowd that they were still dancing, else Isabelle would be angrier than she was already going to be when she caught them not doing their jobs.

"So you should." Jace traced his hand down her spine, his fingers playing with the strips of fabric that made up her almost-backless dress. "If it was anyone else, I'd have been out of that room in a heartbeat."

She drew back, confused. "Why did you stay?"

He drew a line from her temple to the small dimple at the side of her mouth, joining up the freckles on her cheeks with his finger. "I have two theories."

"And?" She could barely breathe. This situation was so fragile, so unstable with the many emotions the two of them were sharing. They were dancing, and both of them were aroused, but they were also unsure about what they were acknowledging about each other. Her, that he stayed with her last night when – if she had been any other girl – he would have fled. Him, that she thought about him enough to murmur his name in her sleep, and he wasn't sure how to feel about that.

"Either, I'm an idiot," Jace said, and there was a touch of bitterness in his tone now. "Or I'm an idiot."

Frowning, because that was not the response she'd been expecting, and because she was beginning to worry that he was regretting their time together last night, she opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by Isabelle's disapproving voice.

"This is all so wonderfully adorable, but I don't pay you to dance on my bar." She slid her hands over Clary's hips and pulled her away from Jace, eyeing Jace harshly. "Get back _behind_ the bar and serve drinks."

Jace flipped her off but Isabelle only shrugged, waiting impatiently for him to spring off the counter. He landed in a crouch and straightened, running a hand through his tousled golden hair and winking at Clary before spinning a glass between his fingers and addressing the nearest customer. His movements were smooth and agile, and heat bred from the attraction she felt for him swirled in her stomach.

"Clary," Isabelle turned to her, eyebrow raised. "First night, and your attention is already diverted."

"I'm not going to apologize," Clary told her defiantly. "The crowd loved us. You said if the customers were happy, then you were happy."

Isabelle rolled her eyes, but she didn't have much to say to that. "At least do a _fixed_ routine," she said. "I'll grab Morgenstern. You can do a couple's dance, together."

Clary pulled a face, her stomach dropping. She didn't want to dance with Jonathan, and the memory of his lips on hers made her feel unsettled and disturbed. He'd set fire to a bar last night, and no one had provided any evidence to condemn him, despite the fact that someone had been seriously hurt. It worried her; what else had he gotten away with? She wasn't sure she wanted to know.

Sullenly, she made her way over to the stage, pulling her skirt down, feeling a sudden loathing for the poles, for her job, for Jonathan Morgenstern and Isabelle Lightwood. Clary wanted nothing more than to take Jace's hand and run away. Run away from Heavenly Fire, from this city, from the crimes that hung over Jace's head like an axe. She wanted to run away from all the problems surfacing in this place, and live in peace with Jace, learning to be together, to kiss each other better, to fix each other. He could fix her inherent loneliness, and she could fix his broken heart.

This was reality, however, so she'd have to find another way to fix hearts, because Jonathan Morgenstern was heading towards her, and she had to suck it up and deal with it.

* * *

Jace dried the glass automatically, and filled it with liquor. He wasn't really concentrating, to say the least, but how could he when Clary was dancing like _that?_ His eyes were glued to her; he watched her every movement, noticing the stretch of her flexing muscles as she curved around Jonathan's topless body, noticing the tiny beads of perspiration that had accumulated on her bared stomach, noticing the strain in her face as Jonathan lowered himself over her, his hands touching areas of Clary that Jace wanted to touch. He could only imagine how she felt; soft and firm at the same time. Warm and comforting. The jealousy roaring within him was loud, and threatened to obliterate all other sense. In that moment, he hated Jonathan Morgenstern. The hatred was foreign, alien. He'd never felt such a loathing for someone before, especially not his best friend. The emotion confused him, because it was so extreme and because he was so used to respecting Jonathan – admiring him, even.

Right now, he wanted to punch him in his perfectly carved face and hopefully break his nose. The violence sang in his blood, igniting his nerves, setting him on fire. He noticed, then, the marks that lay on Jonathan's skin – fingernails had raked down his back, drawing blood that had dried to scabs. Under the spotlight, they were faded almost to invisibility, but Jace saw them. Surprised, he narrowed his eyes. Jonathan never allowed any girl to hurt him during sex. Implementing pain meant that they had power, and Jonathan always held that in any sexual encounter – Jace knew enough about Jonathan's personality to know that.

His musings were cut by the overwhelming wave of anger rushing through him as he watched Jonathan caress the inside of Clary's thigh as she danced on the pole. His hand swept underneath the hem of her dress, provocatively lingering at the stretch of skin between her hip and thigh. It was a personal, intimate touch, something someone should only do with someone they trusted – Jace, supposed, though he'd touched many women like that before. Jealousy clouded his thoughts and he made a sound of dark satisfaction when Clary shot Jonathan a glare, stopping him in his tracks. The satisfaction did nothing to eradicate the fury, however, and he clenched his hands into fists, his jaw flexing. He knew he looked pissed, but he didn't care if Jonathan saw that. He _wanted_ him to know how much this irritated him – he didn't want to keep passing Clary around like she was some toy. He wanted her to be his, and his only. If only Jonathan would stop playing on his power.

"You look pissed as hell, Herondale." A cigarette flicked in his vision, and he tensed with familiarity he felt hearing the voice. "Go ahead: light it up."

He closed his eyes, refusing to look at her for a moment whilst he grappled with his emotions. He could hear her voice clear as day, whispering seductively in his ear. It was the same as before, all those years ago. The same mix of scorn and power, lust and disdain. He'd missed her – though he'd never admit it – but now he wasn't sure if he wanted her back in the city or not. She had a habit of ruining all that was good, and Jace was just starting to appreciate the good in his relationship with Clary. With her, he was learning that he didn't have to resort to bad things to make _less_ bad things seem better.

"Nina." Eventually, he turned to look at her. She hadn't changed much; her raven hair was tinged with purple and she had a few extra tattoos and piercings, but her eyes were still the same – startlingly blue, ringed in dark liner. Her lips were still the same: crimson and full. He remembered kissing those lips, remembered the claim they had over him. _Used to have,_ he corrected. He didn't want her anymore.

"Oh, it's been so long, _honey_." She traced her finger up his bicep, her nail scratching lightly at the surface of his skin. He fought the urge to shiver. "Did you miss me?"

"Life was certainly…mundane…after you left." He struggled to speak, but not through desire. Fear? Not quite. Apprehension, perhaps. He was worried that Nina's presence would ruin things with Clary – if she ever found out who she was. He didn't want his history with this dominatrix to taint his relationship with Clary. It was the only panicking thought that claimed his mind.

She waved the cigarette in front of his face again, smirking. She sucked in her lip ring, her tongue playing idly with the metal. Jace watched, transfixed. The gesture was attractive – hot, even – but not because it was Nina, but because he couldn't help but remember Clary biting her lip when they were dancing together on the bar, or that time in the shower, or when she was concentrating on her art work in class. It was a habit she had that drove Jace nuts. Something hot stirred in his stomach and he blinked the image away, a feeling of satisfaction settling over him. So he wasn't entirely attracted to Nina, if he was imagining Clary in her stead. The thought comforted him.

"What has you so wild?" Nina flicked her hand towards him, her eyes scanning his taut muscles, tensed jaw, clenched fists, pointedly. "Jonathan pissed you off?"

Jace didn't respond, but his gaze flashed to the two of them, locked in a dangerous embrace that Jace longed to break. He had some comfort in seeing the look of distance in Clary; her heart wasn't in it, and Jace had never seen her looked at _him_ like that. Even if Jonathan was overly interested in the girl Jace wanted, she didn't reciprocate the feelings. It took two to craft a relationship, he supposed, though he wouldn't put it past Jonathan to force himself upon her. The thought left him physically quivering with fury, and only Nina's hand on his arm stopped him from storming up to the stage and tearing them apart, hopefully not without throwing a hit in Jonathan's face.

"Whoa, honey," Nina clicked her tongue, amused by Jace's angry demeanor. "You _are_ pissed with Morgenstern." Rather than show offense or concern, Nina just seemed overly pleased by the drama.

"No," he shook her off, rather violently in fact. "We're cool."

A flash of anger shot through her eyes as she glared at him. "It's the chick up there with him, isn't it?"

"No." His hesitation betrayed him, however, and Nina narrowed her eyes, turning her attention to Clary, judging her with a calculating air, cool and indifferent.

"Aww, she's cute." Nina said, but she made the words sound vile and disgusting, as though there was nothing worse in the world than being _cute_. "What's her name?"

Jace gritted his teeth and turned away from her, greeting a customer harshly and serving up their order. Nina flashed a grin and sidled closer to the customer – and therefore Jace – observing him with a degree of concentration that anyone could be proud of. When the customer had drunkenly staggered away with his new drink, Nina leaned in.

"I can put two and two together, Herondale," she murmured. "You think I don't know the chick _Jonathan's_ all caught up with? I have to admit…" she paused, running her finger across her lip idly. "I never thought he'd take a second glance at a _redhead_ and she's a little short – not to mention clumsy – but each to their own, I suppose."

"There's nothing wrong with her," Jace snapped, hating Nina for exploiting the flaws in Clary, but he wished he hadn't spoken the moment the words came out of his mouth. They were a reflex reaction, a comeback to her harsh words. Now he realized he had just played into her hands.

"You're totally besotted, aren't you?" Nina grinned, her eyes flashing with some emotion Jace couldn't quite place. "Interesting, that, considering the manwhore you are."

"I'm not besotted," he spat. "She's just a distraction. That's all she is. All she'll ever be."

"Ouch," Nina winced playfully, a spark in her blue eyes. "I'm sure she'll just _love_ that."

"She knows." Jace always felt like this around her – completely patronized. He always felt like a five-year-old boy in Nina's presence, a toddler scolded for his behavior. It infuriated him and, incensed as he already was by Jonathan's actions, he really didn't need the added anger.

"Oh, I'm sure," Nina responded sarcastically, her eyes lighting as an idea came to her. "So tell me – is she good in the bedroom?"

"Excellent," Jace lied smoothly, just to shut her up. In fact, he hadn't sampled many of Clary's skills in the bedroom; she was still the virgin she was when he'd met her, though he hoped that would change soon. He was using every ounce of his will not to lash out, at either Nina or Jonathan – he wasn't sure which. He wanted nothing more than to take Clary's hand and get out of there, away from Jonathan's predatory clutches and Nina's black heart of narcissism. His instincts were screaming for him to take Clary away – that she was going to get hurt if they stayed.

But what could he do? He had a task to complete – a deal to uphold, on Jonathan's behalf. She had a job to do and was unlikely to let him take her away, and he didn't really like the idea of adding 'kidnapping' to the list of crimes sitting on his subconscious guilt.

"I bet I could make you feel _better_." Nina leant forward, and Jace averted his eyes to keep from devouring the site of Nina leant over the counter, playing with him, teasing. "I could, and you know it."

"You don't know what Clary's capable of," he bluffed, a streak of hostility puncturing his words. He was just doing this to piss her off now, to hurt her like she hurt him. "Her skills blow you out the water. She's _fantastic_ with her tongue."

Nina pouted, rage flashing momentarily over her face before her answering smile calmed it out, smoothing the scowl on her forehead. "You already know that's not true. If you don't think I could be your distraction, take a look at Jonathan's body."

Jace knew what she was talking about: the scratches on Jonathan's body were long, eight lines running from his shoulder blades to the small of his back – like whip lashes, almost. He swallowed the image of Nina clutching _him_ like that, her nails raking his skin. He'd already experienced that with her, and the difference was, Nina hurt. Clary had taught him that when she'd passed her nails over his skin. Nina's grip had been painful but Clary's firm and unrelenting and satisfying. Stupid and ridiculous as it may sound, Clary's hold made him feel wanted and safe; Nina's – the opposite.

"I already have a distraction, and she's currently dancing with yours." Jace'd had enough. He vaulted the bar, joining her on the other side. He took her cigarette from her hand and lit it with his own lighter, placing it between his lips. "So if you don't mind, shut the fuck up."

"Ooh," Nina rolled her eyes, but she seemed pleased that he'd taken her spliff, accepted her company. He refused to serve up anymore – he was too pissed to do anything helpful for anyone. For now, he was going to smoke the joint, get high on the pot inside it, and collapse in emotions much lighter and bearable than his own. "_Somebody_ needs a good quickie."

Rolling his eyes, he grinned, the feeling of elation settling over his mind, fogging his hostile thoughts and loosening the muscles tightened in his back from anger. "I mean it, Nina," he said, in a much lighter tone. "Back off a bit, yeah?"

She leaned back, spoke briefly with the customer to her left, and stole his shot, downing it instantly. The man cried out in anger, and she only shrugged, unbothered. He swore at her, threatened her and even made a move to shove her, but she turned on her charms, let her lips brush his throat, and ran a hand over his rapidly-tightening crotch. When he was quieted, she turned back to Jace, a victorious light dancing in her blue eyes. He could almost hear her unspoken voice: _see?_

"Good to see you haven't lost your touch." Jace said, exhaling the smoke in her face. "Though I can promise you I won't be requiring it."

"Of course you won't."

Jace looked at her, picking up on her double meaning. "What?" He asked, hating the feeling of missing out on something she'd clearly assumed. "What are you thinking?"

"She told you not to get high again, didn't she?" Nina nodded to Clary – dancing, still, on stage – before continuing, ignoring Jace's paling face. "I know because you hesitated when I first offered you the joint. There's no way you would have done that _before_. Yet, I talked to you a little, coaxed you out of your shell, and here you are, smoking like a fucking chimney."

He took another drag on the joint, her words barely touching his near-euphoric mood. "That wasn't your doing. I chose to smoke."

"But you feel guilty, don't you?" Nina took the joint from him and placed it between her crimson lips. The red stain of her lipstick marked the paper of the butt, leaking into the creases. "I know you do. I know _you_, Herondale."

"I don't feel guilty," he spat, only mildly irritated. He stepped closer to her, touching her lips in a gesture that clearly meant: give it back. She opened her mouth, exhaling the smoke in his face in response, and he took the opportunity to take the joint from her mouth and slip it between his lips. "Clary doesn't own me."

"Now we're piping a different tune, aren't we?" Nina laughed, but the sound was cold and brittle. "She drags you down, Herondale. I could make you remember what life used to be like. You don't need her."

Jace cocked his head to the side, contemplating. His life with Nina all those years ago had been fun, to say the least. They'd had the ideal 'no strings' and it had stayed that way. They'd ruined bars and shops and restaurants alongside Jonathan, and they'd stolen more cash from tills than he'd ever saved in his life. The adrenaline and euphoric high he'd felt, running through the streets, swearing profusely as the sirens neared…there was nothing that compared. He felt free. There was no other feeling, no one else that made him feel that way.

No one except…

"I don't need you to get that feeling, anymore," he murmured, but his words were so quiet that Nina didn't hear him.

"Huh?"

"I don't need you." Jace backed off, handing her the joint, and wiping his palms on his shirt, as though he could get rid of the evidence of touching the pot just by cleaning his hands. "I think you need me – and Jonathan – and to an extent, he needs you too. But I don't. _I don't need you."_

As he walked away, running a shaky hand through his golden hair, he heard Nina shout, "We'll see, when she dumps you and you come crying back to us. Clary isn't going to want to be in a relationship with a fucking _broken little boy."_

He stopped but didn't turn around. Even high as he was, with the feelings of blissful rapture and elation running through him, he still felt a prickle of anger and hurt at her words. And doubt. Was she right? Would Clary get bored of trying to fix him and leave him alone?

Biting his lip, he pushed himself to subdue the unwanted emotional doubt, and he clenched his fists and strode on, heading to the exit. He couldn't breathe in here – he was stiflingly claustrophobic in the club – and he launched himself at the door, breathing in the cool air of the night.

For tonight, at least, he'd had enough.

* * *

Isabelle stepped down from the stage. She'd relieved Jonathan and Clary an hour ago, but now she was beginning to get bored, so she let Aline take her place as she wandered over to the bar. Jonathan was serving up drinks with his trademark cocky, predatory smirk, but Jace was nowhere to be found. Irritated, Isabelle looked around, but her thoughts were confirmed when Clary nudged her shoulder.

"He's not here," she confirmed, her own voice colored with annoyance. "He bailed again."

"He's very good at that, if you haven't noticed," Isabelle snapped. "I'm going to fucking kill him. He _always_ does this."

"I…" Clary turned away, her eyes darkening with sadness. "I think he was smoking."

"Whoop de fucking doo."

Clary's green eyes flared with anger and she balled her hands into fists, standing up to the older girl, rolling her shoulders back as confidence and anger balanced with the sadness in her face. "If you weren't so busy condemning him for his every move, maybe you could learn to understand why he acts like this. Instead, you're so self-absorbed into your _own_ problems that you don't bother to think that other people may have their own."

"Save me the lecture, redhead," Isabelle scoffed. "Jace does what he wants because he wants to. He's not mentally instable, or fragile; he knows perfectly well what he's doing. If he's getting high, it's his own choice."

"But I told him not to take drugs anymore." Clary looked visibly upset; her eyes were filmed with tears, and she had wrapped her arms around herself, as though she was holding herself together. Isabelle tutted, only a little sympathetically. It was true that she hated Jace, but she had always felt some sort of paternal instinct towards Clary – she'd always had this urge to protect her. Seeing her so vulnerable now not only made her hate Jace that much more, but also made her soften her tone a little.

"Take the rest of the night off, Fray." Isabelle touched her arm. "Take a relaxing bath, eat ice cream on hot waffles and get an early night's sleep, alright?"

Clary bit her lip, hesitating. "It's my first night – I don't want to bail."

"You've done brilliantly," Isabelle reassured her, pressing her fingertips into Clary's shoulder. She made eye contact, trying to convey her seriousness in that single stare. She'd loathe to be the reason Clary became stressed or ill or miserable. "Go home."

Clary hesitated only slightly before nodding. "Thanks, Iz."

Isabelle watched the girl leave with a soft sigh. She liked Clary – respected her even – but she couldn't help but feel sorry for the girl. She was clearly in the middle of this unspoken feud of power between Jace and Jonathan, and she was just trying to understand them and make them both better people. It was a hard feat – impossible, even – but Isabelle thought if anyone could do it, it would be Clary. She had a knack of understanding people, of getting beneath their skins. Isabelle had no doubt Clary knew what she was getting herself into, messing around with Jace and Jonathan, but she couldn't help but feel she should have warned her anyway.

_Shut up, _she told herself. _Clary's not a little girl; she can handle herself._

"Isabelle?"

Her stomach dropped because _no_, there was no way he could be here. Not now. The horror she felt rise in her throat almost made her sick, and she turned slowly, as if she could make time disappear, perhaps even him.

Simon stood there, his arms crossed over himself as though he didn't dare touch any of the dancing teens around him. He glanced around, his eyes wide with fear, and pushed his glasses further up his nose. He was wearing a white tank top and black jeans. Isabelle swallowed the lump in her throat. She was aware of what this looked like; she was dressed provocatively, in tiny slips and slashes of material covering her private body parts, but the rest of her was bared to him. Her hair was braided down her spine, the tail barely brushing the small of her back. She always felt superior and sexy in this outfit, but now, stood here, in front of Simon's shocked face, she'd never felt so small.

"What are you doing here?" Isabelle managed to choke out.

"I came with a friend," Simon motioned vaguely over his shoulder, his eyes scouring her body. She felt his disappointment, tasted it. It was tangible. She wished she could disappear, hide away, pretend this wasn't happening. "I thought you were a _waitress_."

"I am-"

"I don't see other waitresses dressed like that."

Isabelle held her breath, blinking back the sting of her eyes. She wished she could turn back time. She looked over to the bar, noticed Jonathan watching her. Slowly, imperceptibly, he gave her a small shake of the head, his mouth flattened into a thin line. She understood: _don't give yourself away._

"Alec wanted me to dance a bit," she shrugged, trying to play it cool, but the intelligent spark in Simon's eyes told her she hadn't come across as convincing.

"You're not dressed like a dancer, Iz," he said, waving a hand at her clothes. "You're dressed like a _stripper_."

Hurt – though God knows why since that was exactly what she was – she stepped back. Remorse flitted across Simon's face and he took a step forward, hand outstretched, tone apologetic.

"I didn't mean it like that," he said softly. She could barely hear him over the music. "You look…beautiful. You always do. But…I don't know…it's a bit much, isn't it? I mean, it leaves very little to the imagination."

She didn't know how she was supposed to get out of this, so she did what she knew best. She flipped on the charms, stepping towards him. "It leaves little to the imagination, I agree. Do you like what you see, Simon?"

His lips parted and he shook his head, as though trying to clear muggy thoughts. "Don't flirt, Isabelle," he scolded. "You hid this from me."

She pouted, reaching for his hand. She played the confident air well, but inside, she was a quivering wreck. She hoped against hope that Simon wouldn't notice. The thought of him turning around and leaving her, of washing his hands of her was too much. She remembered the kisses they'd shared the other day, remembered cuddling into him as they'd watched a movie together. She'd felt normal, around him. She wasn't Isabelle Lightwood – the dancer, the stripper, the prostitute. She was Isabelle Lightwood, in a relationship with an adorably cute boyfriend, who adored everything about her – well, everything he _knew_ about her.

"I didn't," she objected. "I was going to tell you, eventually. When I knew I could trust you."

"So you don't trust me?"

Isabelle bit her lip. Of course she trusted him, but how could she say that now? She'd dug herself a hole, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to get out of it. "I'm beginning to," she said evasively. "I'm sorry if this upset you." She found she meant the words, which was surprising to her. She didn't know why Simon made her feel like this. So solemn and down-to-earth and mature.

"It didn't upset me, so much." He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, his cheeks flushing as he scanned her body. "Um, it just shocked me. I didn't expect to come to a nightclub and find my girlfriend dressed in almost nothing and clinging onto a pole."

So he'd seen her dancing. She flushed, turning away. She felt so ashamed, dirty and rotten, like she could never be good enough for him. She felt used and cheap and vulgar. The word _girlfriend _resounded in her head, and suddenly she resented the title. How could she ever be a good girlfriend when she'd never engaged in an emotional relationship in her life? Sure, she'd had sex loads of times, but never had she actually _liked_ someone like she liked Simon. She wasn't good enough to be anyone's girlfriend. She wasn't classy enough, or exclusive enough. She was just…a prostitute. A whore.

"What's wrong?" Simon stepped closer, taking her arm and leading her to a quiet corner of the club. He touched her cheek carefully. Some guy bumped into Simon's arm and scanned the two of them, huddled together, with scorn etched on his face.

"New client, whore?"

Isabelle paled, hoping Simon hadn't heard, but he had. He whirled on the older guy, seething, and hissed, "Leave her alone."

"Or what?"

"Fuck off," Simon growled and took a threatening step forward. Isabelle snapped into action before a fight could break out; this was totally out of Simon's character. She coiled her whip – usually twining her own arm – around Simon's wrist, pulling him back, whilst simultaneously pushing the other guy away, jabbing his shoulder harshly with her fingernails. The older guy looked at Isabelle, whistled, and walked away, apparently unruffled.

Simon turned to her. "Why did you stop me? Did you not think I stood a chance?"

"No," Isabelle said, though she did think that. Simon was tiny compared to the brute he'd challenged, and she had to admit she'd panicked when she'd imagined the two of them fighting. "I don't want a fight in my brother's club."

"What did he mean by 'client'?"

Isabelle scrambled for an answer, feeling the blood rush from her face. "I don't know…he probably meant customer. You know – to the club."

Simon eyed her carefully, lashes sweeping low over his cheekbones as he narrowed his eyes. Isabelle had always admired his lashes – they complemented the beautiful shade of his brown eyes perfectly. She touched his face and he leaned into her palm, kissing her wrist. Warmth spread through her, and she stepped towards him, leaning her head on his chest, letting him wrap his arms around her. He kissed the top of her head. Looking over his shoulder, Isabelle could see Jonathan Morgenstern staring at them, an unimpressed scowl prevailing on his face. She swallowed and stepped back.

"You should go," she told him. "I'll come over later, okay? After my shift."

The last thing she wanted was for him to hang around a little longer and hear about her _other_ career choice. How could she ever talk herself out of that? It had been a close call, already.

He tilted her face up and kissed her sweetly, tasting of spice and boy and musk. She committed the flavor to memory, hoping beyond hope that she would always have him to kiss, and never have to think back to a _memory_ in the wake of abandonment.

But she had to admit that she truly didn't believe she had him forever. Sooner or later, Simon would be gone, and she would be lonely again.

She didn't know if she could stand that.

* * *

**Please review! Do you think Clary and Jace will last with Nina intervening? Will Simon hate Isabelle when he learns the truth about her? Predictions, please! Update soon!**


	13. Something New

**Update! Thank you all for your predictions and comments; I read them all! If any of you have any direct, burning questions, PM me and I'll try to answer them. I will not give away major details of the plot because if I did that, what would be the point in you reading? :P Thanks again, guys, and an update is coming soon! You're all awesome.**

* * *

Jace answered his door five minutes after Clary had first started knocking. She stood there in the cold, arms wrapped around herself, preserving the little warmth her body still held as rain pelted down, soaking her hair. At least she'd changed from her shift clothes; now she wore jeans and a loose-fitting sweater, but her hair hung limply down her shoulders, dribbling rainwater down her neck.

"What?" Jace snapped, as he opened the door. His eyes widened as he took her in, and Clary took the moment to notice his eyes weren't dilated, despite the fact that she'd caught him smoking suspiciously earlier. "I was hoping whoever was out here would go away, but now I know it's you I'm glad you stayed."

"I'm cold and wet," she complained, her voice taking on a snappy edge. "So _forgive_ me for not feeling the same way."

He smirked, apparently amused by her anger. "Come in, then."

She ducked under his arm, entering his warm home. He watched her admire the place with no expression on his face; Clary wanted so desperately to know what he was thinking, but before she had time to ask, he dashed upstairs, away from her, without a word.

Standing awkwardly in the entrance hall of this massive manor, Clary shivered and tightened her arms around herself. After a moment of waiting, Clary figured he'd meant for her to follow, so she made her way up the stairs quietly and slowly, her teeth chattering from the cold. Her clothes clung to her skin, lingering at the curves of her body. If she was with anyone else but Jace, she'd be embarrassed, but he'd seen her with much less on before.

She reached the top of the stairs and looked around. The first floor was huge; there were at least eight different doors that led to different rooms and all of them were shut so she had no idea where Jace was. She called out to him quietly, not wanting to disturb anyone in the rooms. Who knew who was in the house?

"Jace?"

"I'm here," Jace murmured, and she whirled around, surprised that his voice was so close. He was less than a foot away, so close she could see the individual flecks of black in his golden eyes. All her breath left her as she took him in. He was wearing a white tank and low-slung black jeans, and his scent washed over her as he leaned in slightly. "You don't need to whisper; we're alone."

Before she could respond, he flung the towel around her, using it to pull her close. Wrapped in the towel, Clary trembled as he warmed her skin, rubbing her arm firmly. With his other hand, he touched a lock of her hair, grimacing.

"I wish I'd answered sooner," he told her softly. "You're freezing."

She couldn't respond; she couldn't think past her haze of thoughts. His golden eyes were soft and affectionate as he watched her; paying more attention than Clary thought possible. She wet her lips, mostly to warm them, and Jace's gaze flickered to her mouth before returning to her eyes.

"Did you smoke pot today, Jace?"

Jace blinked, coming out of his reverie. His gaze darkened and he averted his eyes, staring at the floor. He didn't let go of her, though, which Clary took as a good sign; he didn't hate her for asking.

"Yes," he breathed, a haunting look over his face. "Yes, I did."

Her eyes stung and she blinked rapidly to clear her miserable thoughts. _"Why?"_

"Why do I ever do anything, redhead?"

Clary took another step towards him, placing a hand on his shoulder. He leaned down slightly, kissing her hair absently. She moved her hand to the side of his neck, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw. She could feel the oddly comforting shadow of stubble on his face – barely visible. She longed to kiss it, but the sadness inside her was profound, rooting her to the spot.

"Because it chases the pain away," Clary answered, though he'd never explicitly told her that. He sucked in a sharp breath at her words, as if he was surprised she'd actually said it. "What's wrong?"

"I'm not talking about it," he said firmly, and he turned away from her, walking down the hall. She clutched the towel to her body, following more slowly, hoping that she didn't push him so far that he closed off completely.

"Jace?"

"What, Clary?" He sounded frustrated.

"Do you have…any dry clothes?" She tried to wring out her hair, but her hand was shaking so much that she didn't get very far. "If not, it looks like you might be taking me to the ER for hypothermia."

Without looking at her, he made his way to the closet, picking up his abandoned steaming mug of coffee on the way. He drank a mouthful, and Clary cleared her throat.

"Why the coffee?"

"You ask a lot of questions," he noted, but then he deigned to give a response. "Helps me come down from my high – I've already had three cups."

So that was why he wasn't under the influence of pot anymore. She nodded to show she understood and he flung one of his t-shirts her way. She made to catch it, and fell slightly, unbalanced, into Jace. He hissed as he dropped his coffee, the hot liquid spilling over his hand.

"Fuck," he spat, shaking his hand. He glared at her accusingly. "How are you so fucking clumsy, Clary?"

She didn't respond to that. "What is it with you and burning hot liquid?"

His eyes widened. "Don't make this my fault! _You_ bumped into _me!"_

She tried to act remorseful, but she was far too amused by the pout on his face, the doomed shine to his eyes. She dropped her towel on the floor – cold forgotten – and moved towards him. "Let me see," she murmured, taking his hand. He gave it to her hesitatingly and she pulled him into his en-suite bathroom. "If we run it under the cold tap-"

"That's going to hurt," he complained and she stifled her giggle. Injured Jace was cute – adorably so, and she struggled to keep a straight face.

"It'll make it better," she promised, running the water. She lowered his arm and he hissed as the cold water hit his hand. She smoothed her fingers over the patch of skin at his wrist, watching his tiny tattoo stretch in the crease between his thumb and index finger as he flexed his hand. She was so busy staring at his hand that she didn't notice how intently Jace was watching her. Hand forgotten, his eyes roamed her face, committing her to memory.

"There," she said after some time. "That wasn't so bad." Smiling slightly, she lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it. He narrowed his eyes, thoughtful, his golden lashes sweeping his cheekbone, set high upon his face. He really was beautiful, Clary thought. More so than anyone she'd ever met.

"You, Clary Fray, are the reason I'm going to get sent to hell."

She laughed but the sound was cut off when he kissed her, taking her face in his hands. The kiss was slow and deep, more intimate than they'd ever shared before. She ran her palms over his shoulders, gripping onto the back of his neck to draw him closer, whimpering slightly. His tongue explored her mouth, his fingers twining with her hair. He tasted of mint and the scent played with her emotions, making her feel elated and hot.

He lifted her up and she wrapped her legs around his waist, clutching his shoulders so hard that her nails dug into his skin, making him hiss with pain. She loosened her grip slightly, and he growled.

"Don't you fucking dare let go, redhead," he murmured against her lips as he walked back to his room. "Hold me tighter."

She was only happy to comply. She ducked her head against his neck, planting soft kisses on the skin beneath his ear, hearing his breathing quicken as she sucked harshly on the smooth skin of his throat, her teeth grazing.

"Marking your territory, baby?" He chuckled, laying her down gently. He climbed over her, cutting off her reply when his lips collided with hers. Everything was slow and careful, so much so that Clary was becoming quickly frustrated and so, apparently, was he. His hand roamed her shirt, making the soaking material touch her skin. She jumped from the cold, sucking in a sharp breath, and Jace breathed a laugh against the hollow of her throat. "Let's get this off. It's hazardous to your health."

"Of course it is," she said dryly. "Because that's the _only_ reason you want me to take my shirt off, isn't it?"

His eyes widened mockingly. "My intentions are pure."

She pulled back and raised an eyebrow, being sure to bite her lip as she did so. So she was teasing him, she knew, but she couldn't resist. His eyes scanned her face, lingering at her mouth, and his eyes darkened with desire as he pressed his hips against hers. She gasped. He _wanted_ her. The material of his jeans was stretched taut over his bulging crotch. She trembled, though it was no longer from the cold.

"My intentions are no longer pure," he corrected, taking her bottom lip between his teeth. She could barely breathe as he wrenched her shirt over her head, pushing her back against the pillows lightly. She pouted at the loss of contact and reached for the soft skin of his hips, tracing her fingers across the lines of his groin – barely concealed by his low-slung jeans. Smoothly, he pulled his shirt over his head, his muscles flexing as he did so. She swallowed, her hand moving up to his abdomen and then his chest. She pulled him down to meet her lips and he moaned quietly.

"I can't get you out of my head, Clary," he told her, his voice raspy with desire. "Please, baby, let me make you mine."

"I'm already yours," she murmured against his lips. He consumed her words, groaning as he reached for the button of her jeans. She helped him pull them off before reaching for his. In moments, all clothes were strewn on the floor, and Clary and Jace were entwined in each other. His kisses moved from her mouth, his hot breath flaring over her neck as he kissed the skin under her jaw, shifting over her throat, over her breasts, her stomach. She arched her back and his hand snaked underneath her, pulling her closer – though it was almost impossible.

There was something so different about this. Before, they'd been hot and heavy and sexy. But now, there was more emphasis on affection, almost like Jace was treating her carefully and preciously. She tried not to read too much into it – she wanted to save her emotions from a battering – but she couldn't help but feel that Jace felt differently about her now than he ever had before.

His lips moved down to more private areas then, and her thoughts fell apart as his tongue skimmed across more personal skin, tasting her, tantalizing. She gasped and lifted her hips against his mouth, a needy whimper escaping her lips. She tangled her fingers in his hair, pulling hard when the pleasure became almost too much to bear. He chuckled, his thumb brushing the skin of her thigh. He kissed her leg before glancing up at her.

"Don't stop," she exhaled. "Please, Jace, I need you."

He ran his tongue over his lips slowly, his gaze dark as he stared at her, commanding. "Say it again."

Confused, she hesitated, but she only had to read his face, read the awe, amazement and vulnerability in his eyes before she understood. "I need you, Jace. I need you. I need all of you."

His lips parted and he blinked. "No one's said that to me before."

"I'll only ever need you." The words were true, and she said them because she knew Jace needed to hear them. Jace, who had never loved, or been loved. Jace, who had never understood emotions or relationships, never comprehended the concept of attachment because he'd never experienced it. The broken part of him needed to hear the words come from her lips, and she wanted nothing more than to say them.

"I want to…" he broke off, his eyes sweeping over her body, filled with emotion. "Clary…"

"It's okay," she whispered, reaching for the hem of his boxers carefully, assuring him. Her gaze never left his, even when her fingers skimmed the bone of his groin beneath the material of his underwear, teasing lightly, making him shudder. "_Please_," she breathed. Never before had she imagined she'd be the one comforting him, but she suspected Jace had never felt like this before. She hoped against hope that he was acting this way because this meant more to him than all the other screws, because _she_ meant more to him. She didn't want to get hurt, but she didn't want to hold back anymore. She was falling in love with Jace, and to claim otherwise would be lying.

He captured her lips in his own, moaning softly into her mouth. She ran her fingers through his hair, before gripping his shoulders. He held her face in his hands, his thumb brushing her lips.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," she breathed, and his hand stilled as the word escaped her lips, astounded that she'd agreed. He reached for the drawer beside her head, pulling out a foil packet. He tore off the corner with his teeth, his eyes never leaving hers. There was so much confidence and assurance in his gaze, but so much uncertainty and vulnerability, too.

She reached up to kiss the underside of his jaw and he touched her hair lightly before pushing her back on the bed lightly, his hand skimming her breast and resting on the bone of her hip as he shifted himself over her.

"It's going to hurt," Clary warned him, her words barely heard as she whispered them. "Go slow for a while, yeah?"

"I don't want to hurt you, Clary," Jace told her solemnly, brushing her cheek gently. "Tell me if I hurt you and I'll stop."

Her chest squeezed at the defenselessness in his face. When had he become so trusting and open? His eyes were filled with so much emotion – affection, awe, desire, remorse. Her head was almost spinning from the sheer weight of it.

He lifted her leg slightly, his fingers skimming the top of her thigh. She hooked her ankle around his hips as he pushed himself inside her, holding him there even as she gasped. She clutched at the sheets, her muscles quivering as she tensed, her lips parting as pain flashed through her. "_Oh_…"

"Clary," Jace reached for her face, tilting her head so her eyes met his questioning gaze. "What do you want me to do?"

"Slowly," she gasped, knowing she needed to let her body adjust to the fullness she felt with him inside her. "Please."

He rocked his hips against hers, the movement excruciatingly slow, his eyes never straying from her face, judging the emotion in hers. After a moment, the pain subsided, and she reached up to kiss him, her tongue running across his bottom lip. He groaned, thrusting harder and faster, and she arched her back, yearning, crying out.

"Shit," he hissed, pulling back from Clary to kiss her breast, his hands sliding against her stomach as he pounded into her. His touch was firm but not harsh, and his eyes flickered up to hers for reassurance with every move he made. His tongue traced her nipple and she gasped, the pleasurable sensation driving the arousal building within her at the base of her stomach. He slowed down then, pulling out gradually before pushing himself in. The pace was too slow, and Clary closed her eyes, tipping her head back, her lips parted in a soundless scream of pleasure and frustration as desire and stimulation built within her. The muscles in her thighs contracted and Jace felt her the tightened grip of her legs around him, grunting in response. Sweat slicked the two of them, and Clary was overwhelmed by his trademark scent; smoke and mint. She'd happily smell it for the rest of her life; she liked enough to bathe in his touch, in his words. She wanted all of him, no matter the cost. He was like fire, warm and exciting and flared with life.

"I need you to look at me, baby," he murmured quietly against her ear. "You know I do. Please, Clary."

She opened her eyes, her gaze meeting his. Touching her cheekbone, he picked up the pace as he exhaled a groan, his own desire heightening. Clary moaned, the frustration abating to near-elated oblivion as she whimpered. He lifted his head from her body, wetting his lips with his tongue as he stared at her. His pupils were dilated now, but Clary knew it wasn't because of the drugs he'd taken earlier that night. She wished she could see herself from his eyes; what did he think of her? What did he feel?

He rocked his hips faster and Clary's nails dug into his back as she gripped him. He exhaled with pleasure and relief as her nails raked his skin, his eyes dark with emotion, a swirling mass of gold and black.

"Hold me, redhead," he breathed, his voice cracking with emotion – almost as if he didn't mean to say the words. "I want you to hold me."

"I'm not going to let go," she responded, pulling his bottom lip with her teeth. He tangled his hand in her hair, knotting tightly, his mouth opening to deepen their kiss. The pain in her scalp combined with the pressure rising in her abdomen was proving almost too much. She made a sound of desperation, crying out. "Jace, I'm going to…"

"Come on, baby," Jace urged, thrusting quickly, his other hand resting on Clary's waist as he dipped down to kiss her. "Don't hold back, Clary. Come on…"

She wasn't sure if it was the sound of her name on his lips, or his encouragement, or the taste of his lips on hers, but something about him tipped her over the edge and she threw her head against the pillows, eyes shut, her lips parted in a moan as her arousal crashed and her muscles contracted against him, tightening her grip. "Jace!" She cried, clutching at his side, pushing lightly at him to keep him from freezing. He understood, and rocked his hips slowly, milking out the last of her orgasm. It took her a moment to comprehend that he was panting too, murmuring her name over and over again, swearing softly as he spilled into the condom. He collapsed on top of her, his face buried into her neck, his elbows supporting his weight. They both lay there for a while, waiting for their breathing and heart rates to return to normal.

After a moment, he pushed himself up, pulling out of her. He removed the condom off with a practiced ease, and threw it in the trash. She watched him carefully, trying to decipher the emotions swirling in his eyes, covering herself slightly with the comforter. She wasn't embarrassed, but she didn't like the thought of lying there naked either.

He looked at her, his hand reaching for hers. He played with her fingers absently – almost like he didn't realize he was doing it. She waited for him to speak, knowing he would make the first move.

"Are you alright?" He asked, eventually. "I've never been with a virgin before…did it really hurt?"

"A bit," she admitted, and she touched his face, chasing the disappointment away. "But I would happily take the pain again and again for that."

He nodded, swallowing, his face betraying nothing. Rising, he strode over the closet and picked out a new shirt for her to wear, since the other was covered in coffee. She took it and pulled it over her head, pulling her hair from the collar. The shirt swamped her, though Jace wasn't exactly massive. He was tall, yes, but lean – lightly muscled. Though he was not gangly, he wasn't exactly a brute.

"That's one of my bigger shirts," Jace said, as if to answer her thoughts. He smiled slightly, and the shine in his eyes told her it was genuine. "I like seeing you in my clothes."

She blushed, though she wasn't sure why. He pulled on a clean pair of boxers and sat on the edge of the bed, watching her. He wasn't awkward, but she was beginning to feel self-conscious. He seemed to notice because he leaned in to kiss her – a soft brush of the lips. He hummed with contentment, pulling back with a smirk on his face.

"What?" She asked, raising her eyebrow.

"Don't shower yet."

"Why?" She wrinkled her nose; she _had_ been planning to use his shower.

"You smell like sex – and me." Jace's grin widened, his eyes flashing with mirth. "I like having my stamp over you."

She reached for him, eyeing his face carefully. She was all too aware of how much had changed between them. Before, he hated to be touched. Clary was wary he still would feel the same way. She wanted so much to touch him, treasuring the moments she did because they didn't come often.

He didn't flinch from her, or push her away, so Clary traced the marks on his shoulders, left by her fingernails. Gently, she followed the eight, neat little lines down to his mid-spine. He tensed under her touch, his body trembling slightly. A bruise had already formed on the stretch of skin between the hollow of his throat and collarbone. _Her_ stamp. Her mark. She kissed it softly, barely brushing his skin.

"You're the first girl to mark me," Jace remarked, touching the love bite, wincing. "I've never let anyone do that before."

"Why did you let me?"

He was quiet for a moment. "I have a feeling you'll be first for a lot of things, Clary." The words were hushed, so much so that Clary barely heard him. "I'm not in my normal state of mind when I'm around you."

She touched his cheek and he leaned into her palm, his eyes closing briefly. The rush of love and affection Clary felt when she touched him was incomparable. There was so much to Jace Herondale that was secret to her, so much she didn't know, but she loved what she _did_ know, and she doubted there would be anything about his past or history that would eradicate that.

She pulled him towards her, until the two of them lay beneath the covers, limbs entwined. She rested her head on his chest, just beneath his shoulder, and his arm tightened around her, pulling her close. With every exhale of his, her hair stirred, the sensation oddly comforting. She reached for his other hand, pulling it under the hem of her shirt, resting on her hip. Almost at once, his fingers circled her skin, tracing patterns that were familiar to her now. It wasn't long before she was asleep.

* * *

There were so many emotions, too many, almost. Jace closed his eyes against the fresh wave of pained affection, drawing figure-of-eights on Clary's hip. His grip on her was firm; he never wanted to let her go. Her hand rested on his pelvis, her fingers just touching the tattoo resting in his v-line. _I am the architect of my own destruction, _he thought, reading it again. The tattoo was a constant reminder: _I am broken, I am broken, I am broken._

_But Clary fixes me._

Truthfully, he never felt happier or more whole than he did when he was with her. She made him feel safe and wanted and loved, though he wasn't sure if she did love him. What if she did? Would she expect that back from him? He wanted to give Clary everything he had, but he wasn't sure what 'everything' exactly _was_.

He knew one thing: there was no going back. He couldn't be with other girls, couldn't even look at them, without thinking of Clary. He'd been crushed when he'd seen the sadness on her face earlier, her disappointment with him for taking drugs had been so profound that Jace had felt physically sick.

_I'm never doing drugs again,_ he thought. _I won't be Clary's failure._

Confusion washed over him. What was it he felt for this girl? He craved her touch the way people craved the air they breathed. Every word she spoke resounded in his head, making him dizzy. She'd gotten beneath his skin so much that he'd felt hatred for his best friend for dancing with her. Jealousy spiked just thinking about it, and he ducked his head, his lips in her hair, inhaling her floral scent, letting it chase the dark images away. He hated the thought of Clary being with anyone else but him. He hated the thought of her turning away, leaving him.

_I need you. I'll always need you._

The words that had completely shaken him. No one had ever needed him before; he usually ended the flings before it got too far. He loathed the thought of anyone clinging to him, anyone claiming him, tying him down. Anyone but Clary. The thought of her claiming Jace as her own was exhilarating and relieving. She wanted him – if her words were true. He wanted her. He just didn't like the thought of the pain that came hand in hand with love. What if she got bored with him? What would he do then? He wasn't sure he could deal with another loved one turning away from him.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the front door opening, downstairs. He froze, ignoring Clary's sleepy moan of protest as he tensed beneath her. She hadn't woken so he listened, nervousness pooling in his stomach. Who was here? His father wasn't due home until tomorrow – he was out on some business trip. Who else had a key?

Carefully disentangling himself from Clary – moving slowly so he didn't wake her – he slid off the bed and pulled on some cotton pants, letting them sit loosely on his hips. His phone vibrated on the bedside unit and he picked it up, reading the text with blurry eyes.

_Come and play ;) – N_

His stomach dropped and all the air left him in a rush. He put the phone back on the unit and ran a hand through his hair, nervousness and adrenaline coursing through him. Nina was in his house, waiting for him. There were so many emotions swirling inside him that he wasn't even sure how he felt about that. Surprise, anger, frustration, excitement.

Carefully, he left the room, making as little noise as possible. He shut the door behind him and made his way down the stairs, hearing the small ting of glasses being removed from the cupboard in the kitchen, followed by the tell-tale splash of alcohol filling them.

He found her in the kitchen, helping herself to his father's strongest champagne. She had a cigarette between her lips – a normal one, at least – and her hair was messy, black and purple spikes violently standing on end. He lounged against the kitchen doorframe, arms crossed, watching her for a while before she noticed him. She cocked her head to the side, eyebrow raised.

"Looks like you've had some fun tonight, too," she remarked, her gaze sweeping over his hair, the marks on his shoulders, lingering at the bite on his neck. "Ooh, you let her _play_."

"What are you doing here?"

"You gave me a key," she said, flicking up the object in question before pocketing it nonchalantly. "Remember?"

"That was four years ago." Jace said calmly. "In case you haven't noticed, the invitation's been revoked."

"Oh, _shame_," she murmured, her lip jutting out. She brightened slightly, offering him a full glass of golden liquid with a smirk on her face. "Champagne?"

She didn't give him room to refuse. He took it from her, sipping lightly, and then set it down on the counter. She downed hers, necking it quickly and cleanly. Jace had to admire that; her skill with alcohol had not diminished over the years, at least.

"So…" Nina gasped. "I'm guessing you actually know this one's name since you let her play dirty."

Jace gritted his teeth. "What is your obsession with names?"

"I have to know who I'm up against, Herondale," Nina grumbled lightly. "It's a competitive game, you know."

"It's not a game anymore." Jace responded quickly, hating the thought of Nina manipulating Clary to get to him. "She's already won."

Her lips parted with surprise and she set her empty glass down, her eyes narrowing. She walked towards him slowly, and it took every ounce of self-control not to step away from her. Nina was intimidating, especially pissed – as she was now.

"Clary, isn't it?" Nina asked, her tone casual. "Oh, did you really think I didn't know who she was? Jonathan's told me _all about her._ He's almost as besotted as you are."

A muscle jumped in his jaw, and he tried desperately to swallow his anger. The thought of Jonathan and Clary together set his nerves on edge. He tried to remain calm, but Nina saw through him, as she always had the uncanny ability to do.

"That makes you mad, doesn't it, Herondale?" She whispered, touching his collarbone beneath his love bite. "You know Morgenstern will win; he always does. Back off from _his_ game, and win mine instead."

"It's not a game," he repeated, his words taking on a snappy edge. "Clary is mine."

Nina's finger trailed down his chest, resting at the waistband of his low slung cotton pants. He was all too aware of her touch, all too aware of his own erratic breathing – whether from anger or past attraction, he wasn't sure.

"You're not _in love_ with her, are you?" Nina sang, her voice soft. "Because that's awfully boring of you. So unexciting."

"I think it's actually none of your fucking business, Nina," Jace spat, but he didn't step away from her. There was something about her that was rooting him to the spot. He didn't dare move yet.

"Slay, my friend." She shook her head, her eyes alight with humor. "She means nothing to you; I could prove that to you." Her finger dipped beneath the pant's band and he sucked in a sharp breath, revulsion and intrigue turning his stomach simultaneously. He still didn't step away.

"Nice tats, Jace," she commented, her eyes scanning his bare body. "And you've definitely worked out since I last saw you naked."

Biting his tongue to keep from saying something he'd regret, he stayed silent.

She laughed, the sound oddly terrifying, and leaned it. Slowly, provocatively, her tongue snaked out over his love bite, her lips pressing against his collarbone. He hissed as her lip ring pressed against the bruise, and the flash of pain was the final straw. He stepped away, his eyes narrowing, his muscles quivering with rage.

She smiled, victorious. "You still want me."

"You're fucking delusional," he snapped. "Get out of my house."

"Aw, we're playing that game, are we?" She sulked mockingly, her blue eyes alight with smugness. "Two can play."

"Why is everything a game to you?" He shook his head, astounded, and pointed to the door. "Give me your key and leave."

She made her way over to the door, too pleased with herself to feel the sting of his rebuff. "We made a pact, Herondale. You and Morgenstern had to give me spare keys."

"Well, take this for a rejection, Nina: _Get out and don't come back. _The past is just that and you will not be part of my future." He held his hand out, his vision reddening with the rage he felt sizzling in his blood. "Key. Now."

She sulked, but there was too much pleasure in her gaze, too much triumph for her to truly look upset. She placed the key in his hand, using it as leverage to pull him close. She reached up to whisper in his ear, her hands pressing firmly into his v-lines, making him groan with a mix of pain and pleasure.

"I'll have you soon, Herondale. You're a soft spot, for me. A pressure point. I won't let you get away until I get my _share_."

"Fuck off," he growled, trying not to shiver at her ominous words. "I don't want you. I'll never want you. You don't mean shit to me now."

"We'll see," she sang, as she stepped out into the night. He slammed the door, his knees buckling. He slid down the wall, pulling his knees close to his chest, as he let his emotions crash, leaving him trembling with the force.

"Jace?"

He looked up. Clary stood on the stairs, watching him. His shirt only came down to her mid-thighs, and the sight of her – half-naked, wearing _his_ clothes, smelling of _him_ – almost sent his emotions sky rocketing again.

"Clary," he breathed. He used her image to chase the pain away, the pain of seeing Nina again, of hearing what she represented. "Did I wake you?"

"Who was that?" She asked, overriding him. "I saw her at the club with you, too. Is it…Nina?"

He nodded, grimacing. "Nasty piece of work."

"Didn't look like it to me," she said, and it was the first time Jace had noticed the bitterness in her voice. "Looked like you were handling her _quite_ well."

Jace tried to see the situation from her point of view. It had been obvious, hadn't it? He didn't want Nina – he'd rejected her so many times. But he had let her touch him. She had touched his skin, her tongue had claimed him, she'd made him moan with pleasure. He gritted his teeth together, getting up from his seat on the floor to stagger towards Clary. She stepped away from him, her face wary. Hurt coursed through him at her reaction and he berated himself. _Don't blame Clary for your dickish move, Herondale._

"I sent her away," Jace said quietly, reaching for her. "Because I don't want her."

"You used to be with her, didn't you?" Clary asked, her lip trembling, though her green eyes were steely with resolve. "She was your girlfriend, right?"

He shook his head. "I've never had a girlfriend, Clary." He ran a hand through his golden hair, conflicted. "We used to be friends with benefits."

"No strings."

"No strings," he agreed. "But then…then something happened and she moved away from the city. Away from us."

"You and Jonathan."

"Yeah," he took her hand, mostly because he felt she'd deflated a lot; the tension in her shoulders was gone, and the frown between her eyes wasn't so deep set.

"Do you want her back?" She asked, her green eyes searching. There was so much sadness in her gaze, so much frailty that he wanted to kick himself. It was his fault she was feeling like this. He wanted to take all the pain from her, take the weight off her shoulders. He hated hearing her voice so small.

"No." Jace touched her cheek, feeling her lashes flutter against his fingers as her eyes closed. "No, Clary. Never. I want you."

"What happened?" She asked, leaning into his touch. It was a comforting movement, something that made his insides twist. "What happened with Nina to make her move away?"

He shut down, stepping away from her, closing his emotions off as ice flooded through him. Ice and fear. "It's not my secret to tell," he told her stiffly.

She nodded, and once again he was overwhelmed by the warmth and fondness he had for Clary Fray – who could understand everything he said to her and the words unspoken between them. She was the only person who didn't judge him for his secrets, for the unknowns of his past. She liked him for _him_, and not for the person he used to be.

"Come back to bed?" She whispered, her hand sliding across his stomach to the small of his back, pulling him closer to her. Her touch was like fire across his skin – invigorating and calming, somehow at the same time. "Please?"

He dipped his head to kiss her, his mouth lingering over hers for a moment longer than necessary. He just wanted to feel her, always, beside him. He never wanted to let her go.

She brushed her lips against his, coaxing, reassuring, and Jace had no willpower to resist. He was spiraling out of control; every touch sent him under. He was drowning in Clary Fray, and he'd happily welcome oblivion if it meant he could keep her with him forever.

He just hoped nothing would ruin that which he shared with Clary – that which he treasured so much: her trust and loyalty.

* * *

**Review and let me know what you thought of this chapter! Do you think Clary will swallow Jace's story or do you think she'll press him for more details in the future? How do you think he'll react to her invasion of his past private life? Comments please!**


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